


Mandelene's Hetalia Drabbles

by Mandelene



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drabble Collection, FACE Family, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-01-30 05:49:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 20,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21423208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandelene/pseuds/Mandelene
Summary: A collection of my FACE family and FrUK drabbles.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 72





	1. Star-Struck

**Author's Note:**

> All of these drabbles can also be found on my tumblr blog (under the same username -- Mandelene). Hope you enjoy! :)

**Star-Struck**

**Word Count: 443**

The brush has grown so thick over the summer that it has begun to creep upon the trail and block cyclists’ field of view when going around the bend. At least, that’s the excuse Francis uses when he’s taking his morning bike ride in the park and abruptly collides with another human body.

“_Merde_! I’m so sorry!” he immediately shouts, hopping off his bike and tossing it aside as he runs over to inspect his victim – a blond-haired man wearing a plain white t-shirt and gray sweatpants. “Are you okay? Sir? Are you alive?”

The man carefully attempts to push himself off of the ground using his hands, but instantly winces and pulls his right arm closer to his chest protectively. He scowls up at Francis with a viper’s glare and hisses, “Why don’t you watch where you’re fucking going?”

“I’m sorry – the bushes…the visibility was poor…”

Well, he feels quite awful now, especially since there’s an alluring, magnetic pull about this man despite the fact that he’s curled up in a ball and clearly in pain.

“Here, let me help you up,” Francis offers, holding out a hand.

“Don’t touch me!” the man snarls, aggressively slapping his hand away before shakily rising to his feet and wiping at the dirt and gravel on his clothes. “I’m fine, no thanks to you! So much for a peaceful morning jog!”

“I really am sorry.”

“Keep your apology.”

“Are you sure you’re not injured? Your arm – it’s bothering you, isn’t it? Look, it’s already beginning to swell,” Francis insists, gently putting his hand on the man’s elbow.

The man flinches, looks down at Francis’s own arm, and pales.

Oh, dear…Is he going to lose consciousness or something? Did he really hit him that hard?

“T-That can’t be,” the man stammers, taking two steps back.

“What are you talking about?” Francis asks in both concern and confusion.

The man extends his right arm, holding it out in front of him for Francis to clearly see. On his wrist, there’s a reddish-purple mark that resembles a seven-pointed star.

And it also happens to exactly match the mark Francis has on his left wrist.

“How could–?”

“I always thought it was a birthmark,” the man says breathlessly.

“So did I.”

A painful pause settles between them, and Francis isn’t sure if he should be calling the police or an ambulance for _himself_.

He finally decides he’ll call neither.

“Can I ask what your name is?”

“…Arthur Kirkland.”

“Francis Bonnefoy. I don’t think hitting you with my bike was an accident, Arthur.”

“Well then, expect to receive my medical bill in three to five business days.”


	2. Just Another Ruse

**Just Another Ruse**

**Word Count: 492**

“So, how did you two meet?”

It’s a simple question – one they have rehearsed in front of each other many times. Thus, the answer should be a simple one as well, if Francis would stick to the damned story they agreed upon! How Arthur got stuck with the most pretentious, obnoxious, and lewd agent in existence for yet another mission is uncertain. He has a sneaking suspicion, however, that his superiors thought it would be amusing. The nerve.

“Oh, I met my Arthur on a beautiful beach in Barcelona – he was just getting over a messy divorce. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to find love again, given all of his emotional baggage, but I told him, ‘Do not fret, _mon amour_. I will accept you in spite of your many faults and refurbished edges,’” Francis responds in a very convincing tone and with a soft gaze that oozes with suggestions of fondness. “And the rest is history.”

Arthur is tempted to vomit. They were supposed to have met through a mutual friend on a blind date in New Jersey. That’s what they practiced. That’s what he’s ready to talk about – not goddamned Barcelona! He doesn’t know anything about Spain! He went there on holiday once as a young boy, some twenty years ago. How is he supposed to play along to this new fable?

What on the surface appears to be a double date between Francis, Arthur, and another same-sex couple is actually a ruse to get more information for an inevitable drug bust. The two men sitting across the table from them at this diner are Gilbert Beilschmidt and Antonio Carriedo – and they are currently some of the most wanted criminals in the region.

“Oh, you don’t say! I’m originally from Spain, you know. Which beach in Barcelona was it?” Antonio asks.

Arthur feels his heart skip a beat with anxiety and waits for Francis to fabricate something. He hopes the frog did his research.

“Barceloneta Beach, of course!” Francis exclaims with practiced glee. “It was July. What a sight to behold. From the moment I saw Arthur – he was suntanning alone, as divorced men often do in their spare time during the summer – I knew we would be inseparable.”

Arthur feels his heart skip another beat, for a different reason.

“He might not seem like much at first glance–”

What a bastard.

“–some might even call him conventionally unattractive–”

Control yourself, Arthur. Do not punch your co-worker. You’ll be fired.

“–but he has a big heart, is fiercely loyal, and would take a bullet for me. Of that, I’m certain,” Francis finishes with a beaming grin.

Arthur’s chest aches. A lot. Can the others tell?

“But anyway, we’re looking to have a fun time tonight. Any ideas?” Francis innocently asks, turning the subject covertly back to the matter at hand.

_That’s right, Arthur. We’re at work. This is a job._

_It’s just a ruse…_

_He doesn’t love you._


	3. Peculiar Vocabulary

**Peculiar Vocabulary**

**Word Count: 443**

“Can you say Da-da?”

“No, no. Say, Papa, mon lapin. You can do it.” 

Six-month-old Matthew gives them both a perplexed, wide blue-eyed stare. The brief two seconds during which his face contorts into an unhappy expression are the only warning they get before he starts to bawl.

“Look what you’ve done! You’ve upset him!” Arthur accuses before quickly scooping Matthew into his arms and bouncing him up and down gently.

“I did not! You were the one who has been pressuring him to talk all day now!”

“I’m only trying to encourage him. I thought I heard him start to babble earlier this morning. Alfred has already started attempting words, as you know,” Arthur says in his defense, doing his best to soothe Matthew. Maybe Francis is right – he’s only six-months-old, and they’re already putting high expectations on him and wanting him to succeed.

Alfred, who is sitting in the high-chair by the kitchen table and has leftover bits of pureed pear all over his face, starts to cry in solidarity with his twin.

Francis softly groans, lifts Alfred up since Arthur’s hands are full with the other baby, and asks, “How about you, Alfred? Can you say Papa? Pa-pa. It’s that easy. It’s two syllables. Pa-pa, pa-pa.”

Alfred halts his sobbing, opens his mouth a little in wonder and awe, and listens intently.

“Pa-pa, Alfred. Pa-pa.”

Alfred giggles, releases a little squeal of joy, turns his head to look directly at Arthur and exclaims, “Da-da!”

“HA!” Arthur shouts in triumph. Matthew has finally calmed down in his hold, letting his head rest against his father’s collarbone. “Very good, Alfred! That’s wonderful!”

Francis, meanwhile, frowns down at Alfred, shakes his head slowly, and says, “I won’t stand for this betrayal. I’m helping to raise you, too! Your papa helps do everything for you. He helps change your diapers, feeds you, gives you baths – show some gratitude!”

“Well, well, well,” Arthur says haughtily as he uses one hand to rub circles into Matthew’s back. “Clearly, we can see who the superior parent is now.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Shaddup!” Alfred mimics.

“Look at what foul language you’ve just taught our innocent son!” Arthur gasps, utterly appalled. “Unbelievable!”

“How come he can repeat that but he can’t repeat Papa? It’s not my fault!”

“Shaddup, shaddup, shaddup!”

“Alfred, stop! That’s not very nice,” Francis scolds him, but it’s no use – he doesn’t understand. “I think it’s time we put you down for your nap, young man. You’ve learned enough words for one day.”

“Shaddup!” Alfred screeches once more.

This time, Arthur snorts with laughter and pretends not to see the baneful expression Francis shoots him.


	4. Faerie Funny

**Faerie Funny**

**Word Count: 480**

“You _what_?”

“I’m telling you—I saw a faerie!”

Arthur coolly sets down the cup of tea he has brewed for Francis on the nightstand, conceals the twitch of a smile creeping across his lips, and steadies a rehearsed frown at his husband. “Really, now? And what did this faerie look like, dare I ask?”

Francis, the poor man, has been cooped up in their bedroom for most of the evening because his catered lunch at the office didn’t seem to sit well with him—he’s down with a bad case of food poisoning, silly frog. He’s a clammy, green-tinged mess at the moment, and, admittedly, he’s quite cute when he’s needy and adorably confused like this.

“It…It looked like the one from that movie the boys watch all the time—the one based on that British novel that’s on the bookshelf in the living room,” Francis croaks before taking a tiny sip of lemon-ginger tea.

“Hmm,” Arthur says, pretending to be oblivious for several seconds. “…Are you talking about the film _Peter Pan_? Francis, are you really trying to tell me you saw _Tinker Bell _from _Peter Pan_? Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?”

Francis flushes scarlet and fumes, “You talk to faeries all of the time! Don’t act like_ I’m_ the crazy one!”

“Those are just stories I tell the boys before bed,” Arthur lies with another practiced expression of disapproval. Maurelle will be upset if she finds out she’s been confused with a fictional character from a Disney film. “You know, I’m quite worried…Perhaps you need a hospital at this point. You’re delirious.”

“I DON’T NEED A HOSPITAL. I SAW A FAERIE. IT ZIPPED RIGHT PAST THE GARDEN!” Francis shouts, pointing to the window at the far end of the bedroom. “I’M NOT INSANE.”

“Oh, love…It’s going to be all right. I’ll bring a cold compress for your head. You were probably just dreaming and now you’re disoriented.”

“I AM NOT DISORIENTED.”

“Don’t stress yourself like this—it’ll only make things worse. Why don’t you finish your tea and take another nap? I’m sure you’ll feel much better once you wake up,” Arthur suggests, and it’s getting increasingly difficult to keep his mouth in a straight line.

“DON’T PACIFY ME, ARTHUR.”

“Honestly, you have quite the imagination when you’re ill.”

“ARTHUR KIRKLAND.”

“I’ll get that compress and leave you to rest, love,” Arthur says with exaggerated tenderness. Then, he places a kiss on Francis’s brow and hurries out before he can yell any further.

Before he goes to wet a hand towel, he jogs downstairs, opens the front door, searches the air in front of him for a moment, and sighs when he sees a twinkle in his peripheral vision and hears a high-pitched giggle against his left ear.

_“What did I tell you about playing tricks on people?”_ he asks seemingly no one.


	5. One Big Family?

**One Big Family? **

**Word Count: 582 **

“Allright, Alfred. Today is a very special day. We’ve talked about this, remember?”

Arthur kneels down to be at eye-level with his three-year-old and hopes the gravity of this moment isn’t totally lost on him. Francis is out by the car, supervising their newest member of the family. Arthur thought it’d be wise to send Alfred’s babysitter on her way and mentally prepare his son for what’s about to happen. But the more he thinks about it and the longer he sees the blank expression on Alfred’s face, he realizes he shouldn’t have bothered.

“Wunch?” Alfred requests with great disinterest, sucking on his thumb.

“We can have lunch in a little while,” Arthur promises. “And what did I say about putting your thumb in your mouth?”

“It’s bad.”

“Yes, very bad…” Arthur notes before pulling Alfred’s thumb back down to his side. “As I was saying, we’re about to bring your brother, Matthew—”

“I wan’ watch cawtoons.” 

Arthur sighs, rubs his temples, and tries again. “Not now, Alfred. This is more important. Our lives are all going to change. Your brother—”

“I don’t wan’ a bwother.”

Yes, well, there’s that…Arthur and Francis have attempted to warm Alfred up to the idea of having a sibling by suggesting all of the fun things they could do together once Matthew’s a little bigger, but Alfred doesn’t seem very thrilled and has yet to show any sign of acceptance or tolerance toward sharing the spotlight that’s currently all directed solely on him. 

“But it’s lovely being a brother,” Arthur says with a tight smile. He isn’t really one who should be talking about this topic, given his own relationship with his brothers. “It’s also a big responsibility, so Papa and I are trusting you to be a good role model and be nice—”

Alfred lets out a disdainful shriek in response.

_What a great start._

“Stop that! Or you can take yourself straight into the corner for a timeout,” Arthur warns. He isn’t getting anywhere with this. Francis seems to have lost his patience as well, because a second later, he comes in through the front door, holding their newborn in his black carrier. He sets him down in the foyer, and Alfred instantly toddles over to see—curiosity getting the best of him.

“Matthoo?” Alfred asks, looking down at the squirming, chubby-legged baby.

“Yes, Alfred, this is your new brother,” Francis says, trying to sound excited in the hopes that his enthusiasm will brush off on the boy.

“Mmm,” Alfred hums, thinking long and hard. He squints his eyes at Matthew, looks him up and down, and finally says, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Arthur and Francis ask in unison, both a little flabbergasted and relieved, frankly. They were prepared to have to deal with other several tantrums. 

“Can I has wunch now?” 

“Can I _have _lunch now?” Arthur corrects with another heavy exhale. “After we get Matthew settled in, we can eat.”

They worry it’ll take some time for Alfred to get accustomed to the baby’s presence, but when the boy innocently offers his peanut butter and jelly sandwich to Matthew during lunch, and they have to explain to him that he’s not old enough to eat solid food yet, they aren’t sure whether to laugh or cry tears of joy. Maybe both. 

They’ll be inseparable in no time. 


	6. Synthetic

**Synthetic **

**Word Count: **391

She is stunning. In fact, she is everything he has ever wanted and more.

If only she were real…

Francis covers his mouth with his hand in consternation and admires his work. The sleek, semi-matte skin that resembles a real complexion, the smooth movements of her fingers and feet that don’t look robotic in the slightest, the wonderfully human way she blinks her eyes…

But those eyes—he could never get them to be perfect. They’re supposed to be the windows to the soul, but this creation of his lacks just that—a soul. Isn’t that the very thing which makes us man? Whether such a thing exists or not is a matter of debate, but the idea of a human spirit and the ability of man to persevere, sometimes foolishly, against all odds, is something he would never be able to imitate.

Spirit is a funny thing. Francis has never put much thought into it until now. In many ways, he loves what he has accomplished. He has even named her Dominique. She is his pride and joy. He loves her—that goes without saying. But it’s not a human-kind of love. Not the same love he once felt as a young man. It’s different this time…It’s not just in the eyes and spirit. It all feels wrong. Technologically, she is a masterpiece. In terms of companionship, however…She leaves much to be desired.

How does one go about fabricating love?

He wants the kind of love that weakens your knees, makes your heart skip a beat, and keeps you up until three in the morning. He wants the daydreams, the bubbly laughter, and the feeling of being at home with someone else.

“Is something wrong, Master?” Dominique asks him in her impeccably pure and artificially crafted feminine voice. “You seem upset.”

“I told you not to call me master.”

“I’m sorry, Francis. Do you want me to set the table for dinner?”

“No. That’s all right…It won’t be necessary.”

He purses his lips and plods over to his laptop. For a moment, he agonizes over his keyboard, until finally, he writes a command into Dominique’s program.

As soon as he hits ‘enter,’ Dominique completely stills. She stops blinking. The expression on her face becomes eerily emotionless.

Love can’t be real if you can just turn it off whenever you like.


	7. The Runaway

**The Runaway**

**Word Count: **469

There is an art to navigating a playpen, and subsequently, plotting your escape from it. One cannot simply just climb over it when your muscles and limbs are eleven-months-old. A great deal of strategic planning must go into it. The first step, naturally, is to stand up.

Alfred is pretty certain he has mastered this skill. Balancing his weight can be problematic when he has nothing to brace himself on, but leaning against the playpen itself for support is easy enough. He demonstrates it for his twin brother, Matthew, and babbles at him once his efforts prove to be successful, encouraging his sibling to do the same.

For a good minute or two, Matthew simply stares back at Alfred uncertainly and then scans the room, looking for their parents, who might get in the way of such an obvious attempt at fleeing this prison. Dad isn’t anywhere to be found, and Papa is in the living room with them, but he’s busying himself with reading a newspaper on the couch, so he’s unlikely to notice anything if their execution is swift and stealthy.

Unfortunately, it’s unlikely Alfred will be able to do anything stealthily.

His brother grasps at the edges of the playpen, rises to his tippy-toes, and awkwardly tries to heft his body up over the top. He’s rather bottom-heavy—a direct result of Dad and Papa indulging his boundless appetite.

Matthew expects Alfred to fall face-first onto the ground, and he does. The entire playpen comes crashing forward, making a huge racket.

That’s all right though—because while Papa is busy tending to a now screaming, wailing Alfred who has registered the pain of slamming his nose against the carpet, Matthew takes the opportunity to crawl out of the wreckage, slipping past his papa’s visual field. He makes it all the way across the room and over to the base of the stairs leading up to the second story of their house. Freedom at last! And it hardly took any effort on his part! Sometimes, having a reckless brother pays off.

_“And just where do you think you’re going?”_ a stern voice echoes above him.

So close.

Dad scoops him up off of the floor and into his arms before hurriedly going over to investigate what’s happened with Alfred, who is still weeping.

“You were supposed to be watching them!” Dad scolds Papa.

“I was!”

“Then how did they escape their playpen?”

“I was reading the newspaper and—”

“So you weren’t watching them,” Dad huffs.

Matthew gets handed over to his papa while Dad goes to comfort Alfred.

_“Shhh, shhh, poppet. I know that must’ve been quite a tumble…”_

Meanwhile, Papa puts a hand on Matthew’s head and says, “You’re a con artist, _Mathieu_. I didn’t expect that from you.”

Oh well, there’s always next time…


	8. Love Hits Hard

**Love Hits Hard**

**Word Count: **372

“Why are you always here when I’m trying to print something?”

“I could ask you the same thing. If you have a problem with there being one printer on the floor, take it up with the building manager,” Francis grumbles before scanning the agenda that’ll be used at this morning’s team meeting. He needs 20 copies, double-sided, but for some inexplicable reason, the printer has decided it’s going to print blank pages and staple them together, completely wasting his precious time and office supplies.

“What are you doing?” his colleague, Arthur, asks him with a sour attitude that Francis certainly doesn’t appreciate. “This isn’t right. You’ve done something wrong.”

“Clearly it isn’t right, and I’m not an idiot. I’ve made copies before and this has never happened.”

“Here, let me see.”

“No, I didn’t ask for your help.”

“Don’t be a stubborn arse.”

“I’m going to report you to HR.”

“I dare you,” Arthur snaps back, leaning forward to have a look at the printer’s screen to assess the issue. “Well, it’s not low on ink. You have the stapler setting on, so, you are, in fact, partially an idiot.”

Francis glares. “This is workplace harassment.”

“Must I remind you who threw my lunch in the rubbish bin last week?”

“That wasn’t lunch. It was garbage that was begging to be sent to a landfill.”

Arthur looks like he’s going to reply with something equally aggressive and foul, but then, he notices something on the screen and says, “Ahh, I think this’ll fix it…”

Francis steps forward to see what he’s up to, but that’s when he trips over a cord on the ground.

And as Arthur twists his head around to look over at him, Francis falls straight into him, face colliding with his. Their noses touch, then their lips, and they both hit the ground with a rattling THUD.

Francis quickly pulls his face away from Arthur’s, clears his throat, and jumps to his feet. He turns back to the printer, grabs the fresh copies of the agenda that have now been correctly printed, and runs off, leaving Arthur to make sense of what has just happened on his own.

Suffice it to say this wouldn’t be their last kiss…


	9. Keepin' It Trendy

**Keepin’ It Trendy**

**Word Count: 709**

Amelia has never understood the fascination some people have with hair. Papa, for example, spends at least an hour each morning perfecting how his hair looks before going to work, and it seems like such a hassle. It takes a lot of maintenance, it won’t stop growing, and it’s like the body is at a never-ending battle with the scalp. Sometimes, you’ll have a really good hair day. Other times, usually when it’s raining or humid out, it’ll be a frizzy mess, and so it’s probably best to wear a hat.

While Papa always fawns over her and her sister Madeline’s hair, she’s quite sick of it, to be entirely honest. From what she’s heard, it’s increasingly common for girls to have short hair. Amelia’s friend from school, Katie, has what she says is called a ‘bob,’ which is cool. Amelia thought bob was just a name for a man, but apparently, it’s a very trendy thing, and it just might be the solution to her hair woes.

She knows Papa won’t take her to get her hair cut that short if she asks, so, she’ll have to give herself her own haircut. How hard could it really be? You just grab a pair of scissors and cut in a straight line, right? Easy peasy.

She waits for Papa and Dad to go out into the garden to water the plants and mow the lawn, and then, she takes a pair of craft scissors from her bedroom and scurries into the bathroom with them.

She looks at her long mane in the mirror and whispers _‘goodbye’_ to it before gathering her hair into one hand and assaulting it with the scissors with the other. It’s a lot harder to cut straight through than she thought it would be. Her hair is rather thick, and she has to hack away at it several times before it finally loosens from her head and lands in the sink in glorious blonde clumps.

“Amelia, do you know where the—what are you doing? _Mon Dieu!_ Your hair!”

Where did Papa come from? She didn’t hear him coming up the stairs!

She drops the scissors in terror, glances at herself in the mirror, and fails to resist the urge to cry. She looks awful! The hair on the entire right side of her head is one inch shorter than the left. It all appears incredibly choppy, as though someone blindly chewed bits of her hair off in the middle of the night.

“ARTHUR! COME LOOK WHAT YOUR DAUGHTER HAS DONE!” Papa hollers, beside himself.

“What is it now?” Dad asks peevishly as he comes down the hall. Naturally, Madeline is trailing right behind him, eager to bear witness to the scene as well.

When Dad sees Amelia’s unique haircut, his first reaction is to burst out laughing before commenting mildly, “Oh, dear. Is this some new style I’m unaware of? Something popular among all nine-year-olds?”

“It isn’t funny!” Papa exclaims, appalled. “How are we going to send her to school like this?”

Dad rolls his eyes, pats Papa’s shoulder as if to say _I’ll handle this_, and then comes up to Amelia with a sympathetic smile. He wipes the tears off of her pink cheeks with a tissue and says, “It’s all right. It’s just hair. It’ll grow back…There’s no reason to cry over it. Can I ask why you decided to cut it?”

Amelia sniffles, tries to ignore Papa’s and now Madeline’s judgmental stares, and murmurs very softly into Dad’s ear, “I just wanted it to be shorter, but Papa makes me keep my hair long…”

“Hmm, I see…”

“She’s _your_ daughter from now on,” Papa says dramatically.

“Oh, stop. You’re upsetting her even more. Don’t say that. She made a mistake, that’s all. I’ll take her down to the salon for a proper haircut,” Dad replies, defending her. He sets a kiss on her brow and adds, “She’s beautiful no matter what her hair looks like. Isn’t that right, Amelia?”

Amelia nods, takes her father’s hand, and lets him lead her out of the bathroom.

…

When they’re out of earshot, Papa looks seriously down at Madeline and says, “Promise me you will never do that.”

Madeline nods her head and pinkie-promises.


	10. Building a Home

**Building a Home**

**Words: 746**

“They’ve done _what_ now?“ 

“Well, you told them that if they want to live under our roof, they have to abide by our rules, so they found an axe and decided they’re going to build themselves their own home." 

"And you didn’t think to stop them?" 

"America is the one who is armed with said axe, and, seeing as I care very much about my personal safety, I’d rather you approach him,” France explains, running a nervous hand through her hair. “I’m just thankful he didn’t pick up the rifle in the cellar." 

"He could injure Canada or himself! You left them alone with an axe?” England asks, voice laden with both wrath and concern. She closes the notebook she was writing in, rises from her desk, and storms past France in a rushed flurry of rage. “Building their own home…_lost their bloody minds_!" 

France warily follows England down the winding path from their house and into the surrounding shrubs and woodland, maintaining a careful distance. Fortunately, the boys haven’t wandered too far off – they’re able to hear America’s boisterous laughter and snippets of chatter after just ten minutes of searching.

_ **"ALFRED F. JONES!" ** _

The laughter stops abruptly. As they make their way into a small clearing, two eleven-year-old boys reveal themselves, covered in grime and sweat. Canada is clutching a slab of wood, and America is brandishing the axe, just as France described. 

Canada quickly drops the piece of wood and hides his hands behind his back. His face flushes bright red, and he puffs out his cheeks and lowers his head in shame. 

Likewise, America shields the axe behind his back and grins innocently at them. The suspenders holding up the boy’s trousers are askew, and the right one has completely slid off of his shoulder. There’s also a patch of black soot on his forehead. He’s in desperate need of a bath. 

"Hiya!” America greets them cheerfully, pretending as though all is just dandy. 

“Come here!” England shouts, motioning with her index finger for him to stand before her.

Obediently, America approaches them, dragging his feet through the dirt. “Yeah?" 

"Give me the axe. Now,” England demands, and although she a small-framed woman who wouldn’t normally appear to be a threat to those who don’t know her, in this moment, she is imposing and formidable – just as she is when she is at war. 

“I don’t have to listen to what you say because I’m not under your roof anymore,” America says with a hint of triumph, chin raised. He makes a big effort to look grown-up and stands proud and tall. 

Then, his stomach gives a loud growl, and both England and France shoot him a knowing look. 

“Very well, if you want to live out here in the wilderness, then so be it. However, I will be taking that axe from you, as it is not yours and you have stolen someone else’s property. I will be returning it to its rightful owner. I will also be reporting this larceny – if you want to be an adult, then you’ll be treated as one,” England decides, and that’s all it takes for America to fearfully surrender the axe. “Now, then…We’ll be on our way. Goodbye." 

England spins around on her heel, now holding the axe in both hands, and starts to walk away with France, feigning complete disinterest in the boys. 

_ **One…two…three…** _

"Wait!” Canada cries out, chasing after them. “I want to go home. I don’t want to live in the wilderness." 

"You traitor!” America screams at him. “You’re gonna leave me alone out here? Come back!" 

"I’m hungry and tired!” Canada calls back to America with a whine. 

“If we go home, we’re going to be in so much trouble! We _have_ to live in the woods." 

"France? England?” Canada addresses them sheepishly, ears pink. “Can I come home, please? I’m sorry." 

England and France exchange a glance before nodding their heads. 

"Yes, you may, but you’ll be doing extra work around the house for the next several weeks,” England informs him. 

“O.K." 

The three of them continue onward, and, lo and behold, by the time they reach the front door, who is standing right behind them? 

A hungry, dirty, and tired America with tears streaming from his eyes. 

"C-Can I come home, too, and have dinner?” he blubbers, hiccupping with sorrow and remorse. 

England rolls her eyes, puts a stern hand on his back, and ushers him inside.


	11. Bedtime Tales

**Bedtime Tales**

**Word Count: 578**

There are very few things in the world that four-year-old Matthew loves more than Daddy’s bedtime stories. No matter which book his father decides to pluck off the bookcase, he has the magical ability of being able to shift right into character and make the story come alive. Even on nights like this, when Matthew’s head hurts and he can’t get comfortable because of the fever ablaze inside of him, he won’t pass up a bedtime story. 

“What are we going to read tonight, love?” Dad asks him, perusing the familiar bookcase with one hand on his hip. “Any special requests?" 

Matthew blinks his heavy eyes twice, pulls his blanket up to his runny nose because he’s feeling quite chilled, and mumbles, "Something funny, please." 

"Oh, of course. Naturally,” Dad readily agrees before pulling out a worthy contender. He walks over to the bed, lies down next to Matthew, and shows him the front cover of the book he has selected. “How about this one? It’s titled ’_How Do Dinosaurs Get Well Soon? _’ by Jane Yolen." 

Matthew lets out a little giggle and nods contentedly before moving closer to Dad and resting his head on his chest. "Do dinosaurs get sick?" 

"Well, I imagine they once did…Let’s see,” Dad opens the book, flips to the first page, and shows Matthew the pictures before he reads, “’_What if a dinosaur catches the flu? Does he whimper and whine between each ATCHOOOO?_’" 

He laughs at Dad’s exaggerated fake sneeze and gives a congested sniffle. He cuddles up even closer to him, appreciating his warmth. 

”’_Does he drop dirty tissues all over the floor? Does he fling all his medicine out of the door?_’“

"Bad dinosaur,” Matthew says.

_“‘Does he flip off his covers with tooth and with tail? Does he dump out his juice and get sick in a pail?_’" 

"Ewwww!" 

”’_Does a dinosaur WAIL?_’“ 

Dad makes a high-pitched, screeching noise, pretending to be a distraught dinosaur, and Matthew slams his eyes shut with another hoarse laugh, no longer feeling his headache. 

”’_Does he push back each drink? Spit his pills in the sink? Does he make a big stink? Is that what you think?_’“ 

"Yes,” Matthew says, having heard enough of this dinosaur’s antics to know he’s probably not a very good boy.

“’_No_’,” Dad continues, revealing the plot twist. “’_He drinks lots of juice, and he gets lots of rest. He’s good at the doctor’s, because doctors know best. He uses a hankie, on mouth and on nose. He snuggles right down, underneath the bedclothes,’_”

Dad pauses to tuck Matthew in with the duvet and blanket. Then, he leans over to give him a comforting kiss on the forehead before rubbing his nose clean with a fresh tissue. 

Matthew sighs, suddenly very cozy and growing increasingly sleepy. 

“’_He closes his eyes. He whispers good night…Get well. Get well, little dinosaur,_’” Dad softly finishes, closing the book. He strokes Matthew’s head with a reassuring hand and then gives him one last kiss before turning out the lamp on the bedside table. 

“Good night,” Matthew mumbles, blue eyes already shut. 

“Good night, my dinosaur,” Dad says with a smile before tiptoeing out and leaving the door open just an inch. 

* * *

“What was that horrendous shrieking?” Francis asks Arthur once he enters their bedroom. 

“My apologies. I was being a dinosaur." 

Francis stares at him for a long moment, shakes his head, and says, "I’m not even going to ask…Good night." 


	12. The First Date

**The First Date**

**Word Count: 618**

Keys – check. Wallet – check. Pack of mints – check.

_“Do you need some help?”_

Alfred’s heart gallops with anxiety. Of all the times for someone to be walking in on him, it has to be now?

He tries to regain his composure when he realizes it’s just Papa.

“Can’t I have some privacy?” Alfred asks him petulantly, moving away from his bedroom mirror, which he has been standing in front of for the last thirty minutes.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to be nosy…Well, actually, I do,” Papa says with a small chuckle, looking him up and down with critical eyes. “Here, let me show you how to tuck in your shirt properly…”

Alfred swats his hand away and feels his face boil with humiliation. “I’m not twelve, Papa! I can tuck in my own shirt!”

“It’s important to look like a clean and tidy gentleman,” Papa insists, ignoring his protests and grabbing the bottom of his button-down shirt to handle the matter himself. “You want to make sure it’s even…There. Much better.”

Alfred frowns, attempts to fix the cowlick atop his head for the hundredth time, and mutters, “Thanks, but I could’ve taken care of it.”

Papa gives him a bright smile and continues to spy on him from across the room as he tries to finish getting ready. “Oh, to be sixteen and infatuated…How I miss those days.”

Alfred snorts. “What? You don’t love Dad anymore?”

“Of course I do, but it’s not the same as when one is young and unmarried with few responsibilities. I was your age when I went on my very first date as well. I was terrified.”

“Any tips?” Alfred asks, biting his lip.

“Be on time, offer to pay for the food, and don’t try to dominate the conversation,” Papa says, stepping forward again to wipe a speck of dirt off of Alfred’s cheek. “And most importantly, be yourself. I know it’s tempting to put on an act to try to impress someone, but don’t be someone you’re not. You want her to fall in love with _you_, and not with some character you’ve created for yourself.”

Alfred swallows hard and nods, trying to rid himself of the jitters coursing through his body to no avail. “She has to be home by nine, so I should start driving her back by eight, right?”

“That’s right, and make sure you wait until she’s safely back inside before you drive off.”

“Okay…Can I kiss her goodbye?”

“It depends on how things go. You can try, but if she doesn’t want to, you should respect that. If you do kiss her, then it should be a light, feathery kiss – leave her wanting more after she walks away. Nothing more than a kiss though,” Papa explains, wagging a warning finger at him.

Alfred turns crimson again and turns his head away to look in the opposite direction. “Oh, God. I know, Papa.”

Papa laughs gently and pulls Alfred into a tight hug against his will. “You’re growing up so fast. I can’t believe it.”

“Don’t get sappy on me now.”

“Call or text if there’s a problem or if you need help okay?”

“I know.”

“I love you. Go steal her heart,” Papa orders before finally releasing him from the suffocating embrace. “Make me proud! Behave yourself!”

“Ugh,” Alfred grumbles, straightening his clothes with the palms of his hands before slipping into his coat and making his way for the door. “Sometimes, you can be worse than Dad.”

“Don’t ever take love advice from your father. He has no idea how to be romantic – don’t tell him I said that.”

Alfred cracks a smile. “I won’t…Thanks, Papa.”

“Anytime, _mon cher_. Anytime.”


	13. My Little Sunshine

**My Little Sunshine**

**Word Count: 541**

“I thought you said that the sunscreen was waterproof,” Arthur groans, inspecting the angry red complexion on his arms and legs. Every centimeter of his skin that was exposed to the sun’s unforgivable UV rays feels sore, hot, and itchy.

“Well, apparently it wasn’t…_Shh, shh, I know, Matthew. I’m so sorry_,” Francis says, trying to delicately rub some aloe vera onto the back of an equally sunburnt little Matthew.

“Why didn’t you and Alfred burn, then?”

“We tan. You know that you and Matthew simply have fairer, more sensitive skin,” Francis reminds his husband, continuing to lather the goo all over Matthew’s skin. “Does that feel better, _mon lapin_?”

Matthew nods his head but lets out a tiny whimper, clearly upset. Fortunately, Alfred distracts him by showing him a new game that he’s playing on the Nintendo Switch, preventing the risk of an outpour of tears.

“We’ll put some more on before you go to bed,” Francis promises Matthew, pecking his cheek with a kiss before walking away to wash his hands in the bathroom and leaving the boys to play.

Arthur uses the opportunity to try to stealthily escape to his study, but Francis catches him in the hallway and says, “Oh, no, you don’t. Come back here. I haven’t forgotten about you.”

Francis grabs the bottle of leftover aloe vera, places a steady hand on Arthur’s shoulder, and steers him into their bedroom. “Take your shirt off – let’s see how bad it is.”

“It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt,” Arthur lies, pursing his lips. He makes a move to grab his laptop, so he can move on to other matters, but Francis stands in his way, directs a sharp glare at him, and sits him on the edge of the bed.

“You’re going to be groaning in pain at three o'clock in the morning, and I’ll have no sympathy for you if you don’t cooperate now,” Francis warns, putting down the bottle of aloe vera for a second before forcibly yanking Arthur’s t-shirt off.

“Leave it!”

“You’re worse than a child!”

Somehow, Francis successfully wrestles his partner out of the shirt, and when he sees just how ruby-red Arthur’s shoulders and back are, he clicks his tongue and presses a pitying kiss against the side of his head.

“Oh, _mon amour_. My poor baby,” Francis coos, immediately fussing over him. He picks up the aloe vera again, pumps a generous amount into his hands, and spreads it across his left shoulder first.

Arthur hisses. Clearly, Francis’s gentle touch isn’t gentle enough.

“I’m sorry. It’ll feel a little better soon. I promise we won’t be going back to the beach for a while.”

Although Arthur flinches against the light pressure of Francis’s fingers brushing against his skin, he manages a dry smile and says, “This is why we can’t move to the Caribbean.”

“No, I’m afraid not. You’re too much of an Englishman to be exposed to even a little sunshine.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Francis laughs tenderly and asks, “Is it working?”

“A bit,” Arthur admits.

“Well, if this doesn’t work, we’ll just have to bathe you in milk.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“What if I join the bath?” Francis asks in a low, sensual growl.

“Disgusting.”

“You’re never any fun.”


	14. School Bell Kisses

**School Bell Kisses**

**Word Count: 803**

School is back in session.

Thank goodness.

Although Arthur didn’t appreciate having to get up and have breakfast on the table by 6 AM this morning, he does appreciate that he finally has some time to himself.

Don’t get him wrong, he loves his son, truly, but he can be a handful. At least while at school, the boy can let out some of his pent up energy by interacting with his friends and other classmates.

For the first time in three months, Arthur is able to enjoy a hot cup of tea in absolute silence, tend to the garden, reorganize his closet, and listen to music all in the same day. It’s these simple luxuries that he has missed since he became a parent.

Unfortunately, the day goes by too quickly because before he knows it, it’s two-thirty and time to get in the car and drive back to Alfred’s school so he can pick him up from his first day of second grade. Unlike in previous years, Alfred has been looking forward to going back to school, especially since he made a new friend last year – Matthew Bonnefoy. Matthew, like Alfred, doesn’t have a mother, and thus, it appears the two have been able to connect and become close friends as a result.

Class is dismissed at three o'clock, but Arthur arrives ten minutes early. He parks the car and waits at the school’s gate, already thinking about what he’s going to do about dinner and how he’s going to have to fight with Alfred to get him to take his bath tonight, as always.

“_Bonjour_, Arthur.”

Oh, no.

Not him, again.

Matthew’s father, Francis Bonnefoy, grins cheekily at him and saunters on over. He’s wearing a blazer and carrying a leather briefcase – and well…He looks dapper, Arthur must admit.

“Long time no see,” Arthur grumbles, folding his arms. “How’s Matthew?”

“Very excited about school and seeing Alfred again,” Francis reveals. He stands right beside Arthur, and he’s close enough that Arthur can smell the cologne he’s wearing. “You should have brought Alfred over for a playdate.”

“We were away,” Arthur hastily replies. “We were visiting family in Scotland.”

“Scotland? That’s nice. Did Alfred enjoy himself?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“And did you enjoy yourself?” Francis asks with a wink. “Meet any fine Scotsmen?”

Arthur rolls his eyes and looks toward the school building, hoping Alfred will come out soon so he can get out of here. “No.”

“Aww…You were too busy thinking about me, hmm?”

Arthur bristles like a cat, and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “You wish.”

“Well, if it means anything to you, I missed you.”

Are any of the other parents staring at them? How embarrassing.

“Did you miss me?” Francis asks in a sweet tone, cocking his head to one side.

“N-No.”

“Not even a little bit?”

“No.”

“I thought you’d be a better liar than this, _mon amour_…”

* * *

The school bell rings.

“Race you to the gate!” Alfred shouts at Matthew, and soon, they’re both dashing away from their class, giggling into the early autumn air.

“I’m gonna win!” Matthew cheers, taking the lead.

“I can still catch you!”

“No, you can’t!”

Alfred throws his entire body weight forward, trying to gain some speed, but as he draws closer to the gate, something else attracts his attention…

“HEY! YOUR DAD IS KISSING MY DAD!” Alfred screams, and that’s when both of their fathers quickly separate and glance at their approaching figures in horror. “MR. BONNEFOY IS KISSING MY DAD.”

“EWWWW!” Matthew squeals, stopping at the gate and staring up at the two of them with a puzzled expression. “What are you guys doing?”

“N-Nothing!” Mr. Kirkland says, sounding very nervous. “Come along, Alfred. We’re going home. Now.”

He holds out his hand for Alfred to take it, but Alfred simply shakes his head and says, “I saw you guys kissing!”

“Your father just had something on his face,” Mr. Bonnefoy explains, lifting Matthew into his arms. “Goodbye.”

Alfred gets pulled away by his father as well and slumps his shoulders as he gets dragged to the car and buckled into the backseat. “Does this mean you’re gonna marry Mattie’s daddy?”

“What? No! I’ll be doing no such thing!”

“Does that mean Mattie is going to be my brother?”

“One more word out of you about the matter and you won’t be having dessert tonight.”

Alfred pouts and lets out a heavy exhale. He really doesn’t want to miss out on ice cream…

“What do you think is Mattie’s daddy’s favorite flavor of ice cream?” he asks innocently.

“Strawberry,” his father answers without having to think about it, and then, he blushes.

“How’d you know that?”

“No more questions!”

“Are you going to kiss Mattie’s daddy again?”

“ALFRED!”


	15. Probably Love

**Probably Love **

**Word Count: 450**

“The probability that P1 is less than P2 is…is…I don’t know, oh, _mon Dieu_!”

Arthur scoffs and gets up from the couch, deciding it’s about time to force his roommate, Francis, to close his books for the night and go to bed. “You’ve been studying enough. You won’t do well if you don’t get any sleep tonight, and cramming never works.”

“Cramming always works for me,” Francis assures, scribbling a few more notes into the margins of his statistics notebook. “Just one more problem set…”

“No, you’re done. Put it away,” Arthur demands, closing the textbook for him and snatching his notebook away. “You can have this back in the morning.”

“I’m going to faaaaail!” Francis screeches dramatically before clawing at Arthur’s hands to get his notes back. “If I fail the midterm, I fail the whole course!”

“You’ll be fine! Relax!”

“Noooo! I’ll die. I’ll fail the course and never get my degree and end up on the street and DIE!”

“It’s just one exam!”

“You wouldn’t be saying that if this were one of your biology exams.”

“Yes, I would!”

It’s no use. If Francis wants to mope in their dorm all night, that’s fine, as long as he doesn’t disturb him or make himself sick and then spread it onto him. He doesn’t actually care about the dumb frog’s wellbeing. It’s college – they’ve all been sleep-deprived at some point or another and survived, some with more successful results than others.

He drops the Frenchman’s notebook back on the desk and goes off to brush his teeth, done with attempting to be helpful. Unlike some students, Arthur didn’t wait until the last minute to study for his midterms, and he’s already gotten most of his major exams this week out of the way. He can have a restful sleep knowing that he doesn’t have anything else to worry about for now.

Or so, he thinks.

He wakes up at midnight – he’s not sure why, but something just doesn’t _feel _right. When he leaves his bedroom and goes into the common area, he sees that Francis is still by the desk, except his head is lying on his textbook.

_He fell asleep from exhaustion. What an idiot._

Arthur sighs, shakes Francis’s shoulder to wake him up, and then guides the groggy young man to the bedroom opposite his. 

His chest tingles a little with an emotion he can’t describe…

“I told you not to cram,” Arthur huffs, but he leaves it at that and goes back to his room once Francis is settled in bed.

He tries to ignore the relentless heat rising in his cheeks. 

Looks like he’s not going to sleep well tonight after all.


	16. Pretty Boy

**Pretty Boy **

**Word Count: 478**

_“‘The ice age is coming, the sun is zooming in_

_Meltdown expected, the wheat is growin’ thin_

_Engines stop running, but I have no fear, 'cause London is drowning, and I, I live by the river.’”_

Through the haze of alcohol, Arthur just barely notices the French boy, but it’s hard not to see his neon pink hair from a distance. The electric blue flannel shirt and black leather trousers are also head-turners, and so, when he draws close, Arthur feels himself being magnetically pulled toward him. 

This boy is a mess, but a hot mess, and well, Arthur is willing to go home with any boy tonight, honestly. 

“What'syername?” he finds himself slurring, casting out a hand to touch the pretty boy’s shoulder. 

“You’re drunk." 

"Hi, Drunk. ’M Arthur,” he continues obliviously, and when the French boy laughs, he feels a pleasant warmth expand in his chest. 

The band starts to play another song, but Arthur doesn’t care, his eyes are glued to pink wavy locks of hair perched on the pretty boy’s head – he’s gorgeous. And that jawline…_Dear god_. 

The boy comes closer, lowers his head so that he can shout into Arthur’s ear over the booming music, and asks, “Do you need help getting home?" 

Home? His home? Yes. 

He drunkenly nods his head and lets Pretty Boy guide him out of the crowd. He can’t hide the dumb, slack smile on his face. How did he get so lucky? This boy is _stunning_. 

"Where do you live, Arthur?" 

"Huh?" 

"Your address. You have to tell me where you live so that I can drive you home." 

Oh. OH. 

That’s not what he had in mind. He tries not to look too crestfallen. 

"Brixton.”

“Okay, get in, but don’t vomit in my car,” Pretty Boy warns him, helping him into the passenger’s seat. “You’re going to be miserable in the morning, you know." 

"Mmmmm,” Arthur hums happily once he’s sitting, as happy as a clam. It’s not every day that he gets to be in the presence of someone so lovely. As Pretty Boy is strapping him in with a seatbelt, he tilts his head up and tries to kiss him. 

Pretty Boy quickly pulls away and chuckles. “No, no, no. You’re too drunk." 

”’M not drunk.“ 

"Of course not, but I’ll tell you what – I’ll give you my phone number and you can call me if you still want to talk when you’re sober,” Pretty Boy offers, scribbling his phone number on a napkin that he finds in the glove compartment. He then folds the napkin and stuffs it into the front pocket of Arthur’s ripped jeans. “There you go. My name is Francis by the way." 

What a beautiful name.

Francis gets in the driver’s seat, puts a Sex Pistols cassette tape on, and sends them driving off into the night. 


	17. Midday in Paris

**Midday in Paris**

**Word Count: 628**

Francis has waited years for this day. At long last, he will be able to show the twins their cultural roots. As far as he is concerned, his children are part French, although they aren’t biologically related to him. He is their father, and he is going to instill in them French virtues and values – as is his duty! 

“This is it, boys! You are standing before the Arc de Triomphe, one of the most important monuments in all of Paris. King Louise-Phillippe –" 

Alfred diverts his attention to Arthur and whines, "Daaaaaaad, I have to go to the bathroom!" 

Arthur shushes him, sends Francis an apologetic look, and says, "Why didn’t you go when we were having lunch at the cafe?" 

"I didn’t have to go then!" 

"You’re going to have to wait.”

Alfred groans, turns to his brother, and mutters, “Hey, Mattie, do you wanna go back to the Disney store that we walked past?" 

Matthew nods his head eagerly, and all of the enthusiasm Francis had for this tour of Paris that he meticulously planned plummets. 

"Daaaaad, Mattie said he wants to go to the Disney store, and I wanna go to. Can we go back?" 

"No,” Arthur tells them both sternly. “Your papa is going to finish what he had to say. Don’t be rude." 

"But it’s booooooring. Who cares about some dumb arc anyway?" 

"Alfred! Do you want to go back to the hotel?" 

"Noooooo!" 

Francis frowns, readjusts the digital camera hanging from his neck, and tries to ignore the pain in his chest. He thought taking the boys here would be a valuable and enriching experience for them. He has always wanted to demonstrate to the boys that the world is bigger than North America, and the history of the world is deep and complex. This is his home – his heart. To see them brush all of this aside as though it means nothing to them feels like a knife stabbing him in the back.

"I’m listening, Francis,” Arthur says, urging him to continue as Alfred stomps his feet and continues to throw a tantrum over not getting his way. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but,” he pauses to point at the reliefs near the top of the arc, “don’t those depict various events from the Revolution?" 

”_Oui_, and the Napoleonic era,“ Francis adds. 

"Napoleon? He was really short, wasn’t he?” Alfred asks, calming down. 

“No, he was of average height for a man of his time,” Arthur explains, dismissing the myth. 

Alfred frowns, a bit disappointed. “When did he die?" 

"Sometime in the 1820s, I think,” Francis says. “He had stomach cancer." 

"Ouch. Gross." 

Matthew, who has been conflicted between listening and going off on a more interesting adventure, speaks up and asks, "Are we going to the Louvre? Aren’t there a lot of paintings of Napoleon there? Then we can find out if he was really short or not." 

Re-inspired, Francis nods his head cheerfully and assures, "We’re going there next. There are so many beautiful and classic works of art there, including da Vinci’s Mona Lisa." 

"Thereal Mona Lisa?” Alfred asks in disbelief. 

“_Oui_. **_The_** Mona Lisa,” Francis promises. 

“Then what are we looking at this arc for? Take us to the Mona Lisa!”

Francis manages a crooked smile and agrees. He has Arthur snap a photo of him and the boys under the Arc de Triomphe, and then they set off for the Louvre. Though Francis would have liked for the boys to appreciate all of Paris, it’s okay if they at least appreciate some of it. 

“Can we still go to the Disney store later though?” Alfred asks as they’re walking to the metro.

“No,” Arthur answers for him.

“_Je suis triste_,” Alfred complains. 


	18. Not So Silent Night

**Not So Silent Night**

**Word Count: 461**

“The boys are in bed?”

“Yes,” Arthur confirms, sliding his feet out of his fuzzy slippers and crawling under the covers beside Francis. “I just tucked them in…Aghhh, my back…”

“You’re getting old,” Francis teases, giving his shoulders a soothing rub.

“Look who’s talking…My goodness, that feels _delightful_. Please don’t stop.”

Francis smiles and gently kneads a knot out of Arthur’s upper back, chasing away some of his aches and pains. “Maybe this means we can have some time for ourselves.”

“Mmm,” Arthur hums, quite content with the idea. He can feel himself practically melting against Francis’s touch. He’s been moving non-stop all week. Between work, household chores, errands, and tending to the boys, they rarely get to enjoy a moment of peace.

To reward Francis for a job well done, Arthur twists his head to the right and leans over to give the man a long kiss, drawing him in.

Francis’s hands leave his back and move up to his face, cradling his jaw and causing happy little tingles to run through him. After several tender seconds, they break apart, and Arthur reaches for Francis’s shirt, intending to undress him…

But a sudden scream from the boys’ room stops them.

Just like that, the passion gets snuffed out and replaced with concern. They both hop out of bed, and as they’re making their way to the door, the twins come barreling in, hysterical.

“THERE’S A SPIIIIDER ON THE WALL!” Alfred howls, wrapping his arms around Arthur’s middle. “GET RID OF IT!”

“Don’t kill it! Spiders are good for the environment,” Matthew adds, hiding behind Francis for protection. “It’s really big and scary looking though!”

Arthur and Francis sigh in unison, and Francis volunteers to be the one to investigate the situation. He finds the creepy crawler lounging on the wall above Alfred’s bunk, traps it between an index card and a plastic cup, and releases it outside.

“It’s over. Go back to sleep,” Francis tells them both, more than a little irritated to have had his night ruined by a spider, of all things.

“Thank you, Papa!” Matthew says, bright-eyed.

“_Oui_, you’re welcome…”

The boys return to their room, and Francis and Arthur make their way back to their bed, equally forlorn.

“It’s always something, isn’t it?” Arthur asks rhetorically, mustering a dry chuckle.

“Why did we decide to have children again?”

“Because we love them and want to share our lives with them.”

“I’d like to share a little less,” Francis jokes, trying to get comfortable. He snuggles up to Arthur, holds him tight, and mumbles, “Maybe another night.”

“Maybe,” Arthur agrees, twirling a strand of Francis’s hair between his fingers. “Let’s try to get some sleep – the boys will wake us at six o'clock, as usual.”

“Ughhhh.”


	19. Punked

**Punked **

**Word Count: 465**

“Matthieu, come down for dinner…! Matthieu?" 

Francis rolls his eyes and treks down the hallway to his son’s bedroom. Ever since the boys sprouted into teenagers, it’s as if they’ve gone deaf. They always have headphones over their ears or are glued to their computer screens, completely oblivious to the outside world. He’s considering buying a megaphone – it would save him the trouble of always having to strain his voice. 

He lets himself into Matthew’s room, hands on his hips, and repeats, "Come downstairs for dinner.”

“Wha–?” Matthew jumps in his desk chair, startled. Unsurprisingly, his earbuds have been blasting music this whole time. He pulls them out of his ears and gives Francis a sheepish smile. “Sorry. What were you saying?" 

"It’s dinnertime. I’ve tried to call you three times already.”

“Sorry, Papa,” Matthew says, finally shutting off the music app on his phone.

“What were you just listening to now, anyway? Sounded like someone banging against metal." 

"Uhh…” Matthew turns red and rubs his chin. “…The Ramones." 

"Oh, no. It’s happening…You’re turning into your father,” Francis says, shaking his head in disappointment. He steps out of the room and shouts down the hallway, “Arthur! You’ve corrupted my innocent child!" 

They both hear movement in the master bedroom before Arthur ambles out and asks, "What are you going on about this time?" 

"You’ve turned our angelic Matthieu into a punk! I just caught him listening to that awful music you enjoyed so much in your youth." 

Interest piqued, Arthur raises his brows, approaches Matthew and asks, "Is that true? Who have you been listening to?" 

"Uhh…The Ramones, The Clash, The Sex Pistols,” Matthew admits, slouching his shoulders. 

“Really? Well, at least _someone_ inherited my great taste in music,” Arthur says, clearly beaming with pride. 

“You were a punk _**hooligan**_! Matthieu, I should show you the way your father used to dress – tight leather pants, torn shirts, studded belts, and he pierced his tongue and nose. It was a miracle I managed to clean him up how I did.”

“You did_ not_ clean me up, I simply had to…tone down my choices after I entered the professional realm." 

"He was a disaster, Matthieu. I have the pictures to prove it. Come, I’ll show you a few before our dinner gets cold." 

Arthur clicks his tongue and says, "Just don’t show him the one with –" 

"With you sticking out your tongue and both of your middle fingers? I’m definitely going to show him that one." 

"That’s not appropriate to show our child!" 

"I want to show him how foolish you looked. And wait until I find the one with the fishnet tights…" 

"FRANCIS." 

Matthew releases a defeated sigh. This is why he can’t share anything with his parents. 

There’s always Christian rock instead. 


	20. Beauty First

**Beauty First**

**Word Count: 437**

Why does he _always_ make the mistake of drinking water before bed? 

Arthur snaps his heavy eyes open and rolls out of bed. His bladder is about to burst – he’s sure of it. He ambles out of the bedroom and heads down the hall, incredibly groggy. 

_Why is the light in the bathroom on? _

Now squinting against the brightness, he approaches the doorway and frowns when he finds Francis standing over the sink with some kind of white, putrid concoction in a bowl. 

“What are you doing?“ 

Clearly not expecting an intruder, Francis lets out a little gasp and nearly drops the plastic bowl in his hands. Arthur notices that he’s also wearing a pair of purple nitrile gloves. 

”…I’m dying my hair…Bleaching it actually, so it’s more platinum than banana yellow.“ 

"At 3 o'clock in the bleeding morning?" 

"I wanted to get it done sooner rather than later,” Francis explains, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world to be worrying about the tone of one’s hair at this time of night. 

“Go to sleep!”

“Look who’s talking! What are you doing up?”

Reminding himself of his purpose here, Arthur begins to nudge Francis out of the bathroom and says, “Taking a piss. Get out." 

"I told you to stop drinking water before going to bed." 

"I didn’t ask for your advice!" 

"Since you’re already awake, do you want me to dye your hair, too? I mean this with love, of course, but…how do I put this nicely? You’re getting some traces of gray hair and –" 

"Mind your business and get out!” Arthur growls, finally managing to push Francis out. He shuts the door a bit aggressively and sighs. Why did he agree to move in with such a strange man? This is precisely why they were better off living alone. Arthur wasn’t made for this whole “domestic partner” lifestyle. 

“Wow, you really did have to piss,” Francis chuckles, and Arthur flushes bright red. Why is the frog standing directly outside the door? Doesn’t he respect his privacy at all?

“I said go away!" 

"But I’ve already started bleaching half of my head. I can’t just stop now. Are you almost done?" 

Arthur flushes, washes his hands, and storms out of the bathroom, muttering about how it’s too damned late for this kind of nonsense. He goes straight back to the bedroom, ignoring Francis’s gentle laughter echoing in the distance, and resolves that he’s going to forget all of this ever happened. 

Besides, Francis’s hair looks bloody glamorous no matter what he does to it…

Not that he’ll ever tell him that.


	21. Driving 101

**Driving 101**

**Word Count: 481**

“Okay, Alfred, now gently put your foot on the gas pedal.”

“Like this?”

The car’s engine gives a loud _VROOOM_, and Arthur shouts, “No, not like that! Stop!”

“He drives just like you, Arthur – like a madman!” Francis notes from the backseat of the sedan, and Arthur isn’t sure what he should do first – direct a snarky retort at his husband or try to calm his racing heart.

Alfred slams his foot on the brake, and everyone’s heads go flying forward, nearly detaching from their necks before the car comes to a full stop.

“I’m really sorry!” Alfred says, sounding genuinely apologetic, and Arthur regains his composure just enough to put a steady hand on the teen’s shoulder.

“It’s okay, my boy. Everyone has to start somewhere. You’re not going to get it right on your first try, and that’s perfectly fine. Start trying to get a feel for the car…This time, just release the brake and allow the car to cruise forward…There you go. Much better,” Arthur says, swallowing against the boulder in his throat. “Good…Now make a left turn. Put your turn signal on. Push down, not up. That’s it.”

“I could have done a better job of teaching him. _Mathieu_ has already made a great deal of progress with me. We started working on parallel parking yesterday,” Francis boasts, turning his head to look at Matthew, who is sitting next to him.

“Ignore him, Alfred. Everyone learns at their own pace,” Arthur assures. Pull over to the curb here. Slowly…Wonderful.“

"Thanks for not killing us, Al,” Matthew snorts, getting out of the car as soon as Alfred shifts into park. 

“You drive like a grandma!” Alfred shouts, climbing out of the driver’s seat. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you go more than fifteen miles per hour!”

“That’s not true at all, and you know it!”

“You are a bit of an _overly_ cautious driver, Matthew,” Arthur admits.

“Papa has never said a word about me driving too slowly! Right, Papa?”

“It’s better to drive slowly and safely than to be speeding everywhere,” Francis says, neither confirming nor denying the claim.

A proper argument breaks out, and while Alfred and Matthew bicker over who is going to get their license first, Francis accuses Arthur of not knowing how to park correctly, at which point Arthur says Francis couldn’t even park a bike if he tried, and _let’s not mention all of the unsafe lane changes you’ve made on the highway_.

When it all becomes too much, Francis exclaims, “You can all walk home!” and gets into the sedan without them.

“Hey, that’s my car, too!” Arthur fumes at him.

“You know, maybe we should just get driving lessons from an actual driving instructor,” Matthew suggests as Arthur continues shouting at Francis.

Alfred takes in the scene and nods his head in agreement. “Yeah, let’s do that.”


	22. Oreo

**Oreo**

**Word Count: 643**

“Daddy and Papa, can we please, please, please, please, PRETTY PLEASE WITH A CHERRY ON TOP – get this dog?” Amelia asks, slightly breathless from all of her pleading.

“It’s so cute,” Madeline says, pointing out the puppy’s black-and-white speckled ears and little snout. “We have to keep him. He’s the most adorable Border Collie ever!”

Francis and Arthur exchange a dubious look with one another, minds made up. They went out to get groceries and not to adopt a dog from the pet store that the girls begged them to come into.

“A dog requires a lot of work,” Francis says, pointing out one of the biggest issues with getting a pet. “Your father and I are both working during the day and you girls are in school. Who is going to walk the puppy and give it attention while we’re gone?”

“We can get a dog sitter!” Amelia says, quickly coming up with a simple solution.

“And who is going to pay for the dog sitter?” Arthur asks, raising a brow at his daughters. They’re always quick to fall in love with the idea of getting a dog but fail to realize the lifetime commitment. Obviously, the girls are much too young to be taking on such a big responsibility. “We don’t have the time or resources for a dog right now, girls.”

“But PLEASE! LOOK, HE ALREADY LOVES MADELINE!” Amelia begs, watching Madeline pick up the puppy and cradle it against her chest.

“Put the dog down, Madeline. We’re going home. Come along. Enough is enough,” Francis decides, fully agreeing with Arthur.

“I’ll take super good care of it, I promise!” Amelia continues, falling to her knees.

Arthur pulls her off of the floor and starts leading her to the exit. “Our decision is final. Stop this immediately. Let’s go.”

“But, but–!

"No buts!” Francis insists. “If you really want a pet that badly, we’ll get you a hamster or a goldfish and if you can prove you can take care of it, we’ll reconsider.”

“Don’t promise them that,” Arthur mutters. He would much prefer a no-pet-at-all policy.

Madeline puts down the puppy, and it starts to whine, crying for her affection. She pets its head and apologizes to it, saying, “I’m sorry my parents won’t let me have you.”

“You can bring the puppy to work!” Amelia tells Arthur, tugging on his hand. “He can be a therapy dog!”

“I’m not bringing a puppy into my office. That would be very unprofessional.”

The puppy continues to whine, and Madeline sheds a few tears, sympathizing with it.

Stepping in, Arthur takes Madeline’s hand and tries to guide her away, but the puppy then stands on its hind paws and jumps at Arthur’s legs, looking up at him with big, sad brown eyes.

“No, I won’t fall for that innocent expression. You’re trouble,” Arthur tells the dog.

“We can name him Oreo since he looks like an Oreo!” Amelia declares.

“We’re not naming him because we’re not adopting him!” Arthur shouts, losing his patience.

The dog whines at him and then collapses to the ground, suddenly looking very distressed. He rolls over onto his side and looks at Arthur with a defeated expression.

“Is it sick or something?” Madeline asks worriedly.

Arthur crouches down and puts a hand on the puppy’s back. “He’s breathing – he’s fine.”

The dog swivels its head toward him and licks his hand.

His heart…Arthur can feel it being torn in half.

“…M-Maybe it could be a good lesson for the girls – teaching them how to care for an animal.”

“Arthur, don’t tell me it’s winning you over,” Francis huffs. “Stay strong and firm. Be the cold-hearted, ruthless man I married.”

................

................

They stand around the pet store for another full hour.

And they go home with a puppy wrapped in a blue blanket – Oreo.


	23. Oreo Jr.

**Oreo Jr. **

**Word Count: 543**

“Daddy?”

“Mmm?”

“Stacy just got a guinea pig.”

“Lovely.

"She says guinea pigs make great pets.”

Arthur hums again and tries to act attentive while his mind wanders to all of the errands he’s going to have to tend to as soon as he finishes dropping Amelia off at dance class. He has some gardening he needs to do that he’s kept putting off, and he needs to order some more office supplies online.

“Can I get a guinea pig?”

_What? No. Absolutely not._

“You already have a dog, Amelia. Oreo would gladly eat a guinea pig as a snack.”

Amelia screeches about how horrible that is and insists Oreo would never do such a savage thing – he’s a civilized dog with a big heart and wouldn’t hurt a fly! Except for the fly he caught in mid-air and ate in the living room that one time…

“But a guinea pig is easy to take care of, and I would be really careful with it. I would keep it in its cage when I’m not around, and I would love it a lot and dress it up in little costumes.”

“No, Amelia,” he says, stopping the car. They’ve reached the dance studio. “I’ll be back to pick you up at six o'clock. Behave yourself.”

“…Fine,” Amelia scoffs, hunching her shoulders before unhappily getting out of the car and marching into the dance studio.

Finally, some peace…

* * *

“WHY DID YOU GET HER A GUINEA PIG?”

Francis winces and rubs his neck awkwardly. “I can explain…I was dropping Amelia off at Stacy’s house, and Stacy’s mother mentioned that Stacy’s guinea pig had pups and wanted to know if we would take one. I held one in my hands and just couldn’t say no, Arthur. I don’t know what it is – it’s like a magnetic force.”

“We agreed no more pets! Oreo is enough of a handful!”

Upon hearing his name mentioned, Oreo’s ears perk up and he comes padding into the kitchen, waiting for a treat.

“I explained to Amelia that the guinea pig is fully her responsibility and that if she can’t take care of it properly, we’ll have to return it to Stacy and her family.”

Arthur lets out an outraged sigh and gives Oreo one of the small cookies he adores. “This house is slowly turning into a zoo.”

“It’s a cute zoo though…”

Oreo munches happily on the cookie and licks his mouth and snout clean before cocking his head at Arthur and Francis, as if to ask “Is there more?”

“The guinea pig is black-and-white like Oreo,” Francis says with a nervous little laugh. “Amelia named him Oreo Jr.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Unbelievable,” Arthur grumbles.

“Madeline said she’ll help.”

“The girls are going to summer camp in two weeks. Who’s going to take care of the animals then?”

“We unanimously elected you.”

Arthur seems as though he’s about to explode, but he stops himself at the last moment and says, “Goodbye. I’m going to go out and look for a new family. Maybe someone will adopt me, too.”

“You’re not cute enough for that.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Francis laughs and tries to smother it behind his hand. “Nothing, darling.”

“You’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”

“I know.”


	24. How to Ruin a Date

**How to Ruin a Date**

**Word Count: 559**

_Okay, this isn’t so bad,_ Matthew thinks as he’s getting comfortable in his movie theater seat. This is his first time going on a date, and he’s been admiring this boy in his ninth-grade class all year. His name is Lewis, and not only is he super smart, but he also has hazel doe-eyes that make Matthew want to melt every time he looks at him. 

He let Lewis pick the movie, mostly because he didn’t want to pick something lame and ruin his chances at a second date. Besides, he’s not very savvy when it comes to films anyway. Something tells Matthew he’s going to be too distracted by Lewis’s close presence next to him to even follow what’s going on in the actual movie. 

The trailers start playing, and Matthew tries to relax and be cool. No need to be so high-strung. It’s gonna be okay. It doesn’t have to be awkward unless he makes it awkward…

_“What a stupid premise for a film…" _

_"Shhh!" _

Matthew frowns. He knows those voices. 

Oh god. _Why does he recognize those voices? _

He wants to die. 

"Hey, Lewis? I’m just gonna run to the bathroom really quickly before the movie starts." 

Lewis smiles magnificently at him and nods. "Sure thing." 

Matthew stands from his chair, arms and legs shaking with a mixture of anxiety and fury. He walks toward the general direction of where he heard the familiar voices. Unsurprisingly, just a few rows above where he and Lewis are situated, Matthew finds his parents – his awful, humiliating, terrible parents! 

Both of them immediately look ashamed upon being caught, and Matthew scowls at them. He motions for them to follow him out of the theater, and they, fortunately, follow along without causing any more disruption. 

When they are outside and Matthew is certain it’s safe to speak freely, his face becomes crimson as he shouts, "What is wrong with you guys? Why are you on my date with me? That’s so embarrassing!" 

Dad and Papa both look down at the ground like children who have been up to no good and then offer him sheepish smiles. 

"We were just worried and thought you might need a ride home,” Dad starts to explain. 

“If I needed help, I would have texted you. You had no right to follow me here!" 

Then, Papa tries to defend their actions. "You’re our little boy – we know how hard it was for us when we were young. We wanted to make sure you were okay. We know how nervous you can get." 

"It doesn’t make me any less nervous to know you guys have been spying on me! In fact, it just makes it worse! Please, go home. If I need something, I’ll call you – that’s why I have a phone, right?" 

Dad shuffles from foot to foot and sighs, "You’re right, Matthew. We shouldn’t have crossed the line like this. There are boundaries we should have respected.”

“Thank you. Now could you both please go home?” Matthew asks, resisting the urge to cry. This is shaping up to be the first and worst date of his life. 

“For what it’s worth, we’re sorry,” Papa says softly before giving Matthew a hug. “We love you." 

"Let go! Get away from me! You’ve ruined_ everything_!" 

"Matthew!" 

Sometimes, he wishes he had different parents…


	25. Big-Boy Bikes

**Big-Boy Bikes**

**Word Count: 557**

When Arthur and Francis sit the twins on their very first “big-boy” bikes – that is, a bike without training wheels – their hearts are jam-packed with pride and elation. It took them seven years to get to this day, and now that it’s finally here, Arthur and Francis are already projecting their hopes onto the boys, expecting them to carry on the family legacy of professional cycling. They’re bound to be naturals at this. 

So when they place Matthew on his bike and he seems far less enthusiastic than Alfred, it comes as a surprise. He starts to shriek and throws a tantrum, wanting his training wheels. He doesn’t like the scary feeling of the bike wobbling from side-to-side beneath him. 

“Just try it, love! You’ll learn to hold your balance. And once you learn how to ride a bike, you’ll never forget how to do it,” Arthur promises. This is supposed to be a _**fun**_ family bike ride down the boardwalk. 

“Noooo!” Matthew wails, struggling to take his helmet off. “I don’t wannnaaa!“ 

"Shh, shh, _mon chou,_” Francis says, rubbing a warm hand against the boy’s back. “Your father is right – just give it a try. We’ll be right here to help you." 

"It’s gonna be cool, Mattie!” Alfred exclaims, and, as if to prove his point, he puts both feet on the pedals of his bike and starts moving. He teeters a little and almost falls to one side, but he catches himself by quickly bracing one foot on the ground. Instead of crying, he giggles and directs a toothy smile at his brother. “See? I’m learning, too! It’s okay. It’s not so bad!" 

Matthew runs a hand under his eyes and sniffles, still unsure. This doesn’t seem safe at all. "I don’t want to fall.”

“I’ll hold onto you while you pedal, okay?” Francis says, supporting him with two hands. “Just start pedaling slowly and I’ll be right here the whole time to catch you." 

Behind them, Arthur begins to attempt to do the same thing to Alfred, except Alfred screams about how he doesn’t need to be held because _he's a big kid and can handle it on his own_, to which Arthur simply rolls his eyes. Still, he stands within close range to help the boy if need be. 

Matthew does a fine job with pedaling, and slowly, ever so slightly so that the boy doesn’t notice right away, Francis begins to remove his supportive hands when he thinks he’s starting to gain some confidence. 

And just like that, Matthew starts cycling on his own without a hitch. 

"You’re doing wonderfully, _Mathieu_!” Francis shouts from behind him. 

“You let go! You said you wouldn’t let go!” Matthew whines. 

“Parenting means letting go, sometimes!” Francis replies, and he’s not sure if Matthew can hear him, but then, Alfred goes zipping past him on his own bike, trying to catch up with his brother. It seems he’s got the hang of it as well. 

“RACE YOU TO THE END OF THE BOARDWALK!” Alfred bellows.

Francis is so happy he could cry, but he won’t because Arthur is standing right next to him. 

“So, I suppose this means we’ll have to start training them for the Tour de France now,” Arthur says with a chuckle. 

“Of course, it’s never too early to start."


	26. Nutritious and Delicious

**Nutritious and Delicious**

**Word Count: 629**

“Who wants crêpes for breakfast?" 

“YAY!” The boys cheer in unison as they go racing down the steps and beat their parents into the kitchen, full of energy after having slept in a bit later this Saturday. 

"Francis, what did we talk about the other day? We need to start leading by example and encourage the boys to eat healthier,” Arthur reminds, crossing his arms over his chest. “You heard what the pediatrician said – their blood sugar is too high." 

Francis runs a hand through his bedhead and says, "I cook very healthy!" 

"But everything gets doused in sugary syrups or powdered sugar. The amount of maple syrup Matthew consumes is ridiculous, and Alfred isn’t any better. Let’s get some more fruits, vegetables, and healthy carbs into them. Better that they get their sugar from a banana than from a pancake or crêpe." 

"What do you suggest then?" 

"How about we take the plain Greek yogurt in the fridge – the one without any sugar – and mix some fruits and granola into it for a yogurt parfait?”

Francis scoffs. “They’re not going to eat that." 

"Well, too bad. They’ll eat what we put in front of them. We’re their parents, and it’s about time we started to exert a little more control over their diets for their own good,” Arthur says, unswayed. “They can have some avocado or peanut butter toast for healthy fats. Low sugar oatmeal with fruits is also an option. I just want them to have something with some kind of nutritional value rather than pure carbohydrates." 

"Don’t you think it’s a bit restrictive? They’re only eight, Arthur." 

"It’s not restrictive – it’s teaching them how to make healthy choices and that there’s a variety of healthy food out there that they can enjoy if they just try them. Given how prevalent Type 2 diabetes is in children these days, I think we should be taking this very seriously. It’s also teaching them how to prepare food for themselves when they’re older." 

Francis sighs and finally gives a little nod. "Their health is our responsibility, and _Mathieu_ wouldn’t be having all of this maple syrup if we stopped buying it…Do you think they’ll resent us for it?" 

"They might complain at first, but they’ll adjust. We just have to show that we’re very passionate and excited about it and demonstrate that it can be fun to experiment with new food. And it’s okay if they don’t like everything – they can find out what they like." 

"Okay…I’ll break the news to them, then,” Francis says, offering himself up as the sacrificial messenger. He enters the kitchen and announces, “I’ve had a think about it, boys, and, instead of crêpes, I was thinking about something even better. Who wants to try one of my glorious yogurt parfaits?" 

"What’s that?” Alfred asks, curious.

“You’ll see. Do you boys want to help me make them? We can put whatever fruit we want into them. What fruit do you boys want to use?”

“Strawberries!” Alfred says without hesitation. 

Matthew furrows his brows and decides, “Blueberries and mango!" 

"Coming right up, _mes chers_. I’m going to add peaches because those are one of my favorite fruits. And you, Arthur? What’s your fruit of choice?”

Arthur smiles, clearly appreciative that Francis is making an effort. “Just a traditional apple, call me old-fashioned.”

“An apple a day keeps the doctor away,” Matthew recites as he’s collecting a handful of blueberries and rinsing them under the sink. 

“That’s right,” Arthur commends. “While you boys are working on that, I’ll make us some peanut butter and banana toast." 

"YAY! PEANUT BUTTER!” Alfred says with delight. It seems he has already completely forgotten all about the crêpes. 

Who says kids won’t eat healthy? 


	27. Imperfect Summer

**Imperfect Summer**

**Word Count: 676**

Ahh, nothing quite compares to a relaxing day on the beach and relishing in the warm sunlight – or so you would think…Try going to the beach with three young children. 

“ALFRED! MATTHEW! I SAID TO STAY CLOSE TO THE SHORE!” Arthur finds himself roaring over the crashing waves of the ocean. “COME BACK HERE, IMMEDIATELY!…THANK YOU." 

Francis shakes his head and turns his attention to the baby of the family, their one-year-old daughter, Michelle. She’s happily playing in the sand between her fathers, babbling to herself. Arthur has coated her in a thick layer of sunscreen, and she’s wearing a pair of sunglasses as well as a sunhat to protect her from the sun’s harsh UV rays. 

"Gahh!” she cries out as the sandcastle Francis has been helping her build collapses slightly on one side. 

“ALFRED! DO **NOT** GO UNDERWATER!” Arthur scolds, continue to keep a sharp eye on their rambunctious boys. A minute of inattentiveness is all it would take for one of them to get injured – particularly Alfred. “THAT’S IT. GET OUT OF THE WATER. COME HERE!”

“Noooooo!” Alfred howls, but he trudges out of the ocean anyway, covered in sand and seaweed. Giving him a bath tonight is going to be a challenge. 

Matthew follows in suit, not wanting to stay in the water alone, but he pauses every few feet to collect a seashell or two. 

Arthur tosses a towel over Alfred’s shoulders and says, “You can sit here with your papa and Michelle. If I can’t trust you to obey my instructions, then you have to stay where we can watch you." 

"I’m not a baby!" 

"You’re certainly acting like one." 

Alfred grumbles unhappily to himself, sits down in the sand, and starts to pout. If he wants to sulk, then that’s fine by Arthur, but he’s not going to get away with bad behavior. 

"Can I play with the beachball?” Matthew asks timidly, not sure if he’s in trouble, too. 

“Yes, you may, love. Let’s go off to the side a bit so we’re not disturbing anyone else on the beach,” Arthur says, taking the ball and handing it to Matthew. 

Alfred glowers at them, and his bottom lip gives a small quiver. “Can I play, too?" 

"No, you’re going to stay in time-out for ten minutes." 

"No fair!" 

"Fifteen minutes." 

Alfred hangs his head low and dips his finger into the sand, tracing shapes into it while Francis and Michelle continue constructing their sandcastle. 

"You have to listen to your father when he tells you to do something, Alfred,” Francis begins to lecture him. “The beach can be a very dangerous place for children, especially if you wander too far off or go into the deep waters of the ocean. It’s very important to us that you stay safe, but we can’t keep you safe if you won’t listen to us." 

”…I’m sorry.“ 

From a short distance away, they can hear Matthew giggling as he and Arthur now toss the beachball back and forth to one another. Alfred can’t believe he’s missing out on the fun. 

Francis glances at his watch and says, "In twelve minutes, you can go up to your father and apologize to him. Then, you can ask politely if you can play with him and Matthew.”

“Okay…" 

Twelve minutes feel like twelve hours, but once he’s finally free, Alfred rises to his feet and does exactly what Francis tells him, except he makes sure to look extra sad and unfortunate. 

"I’m really sorry for disobeying you, Dad. I know it’s not safe to not listen to rules on the beach,” he says, hugging his father around the waist to make him soften up even more. “Can I please play ball with you and Mattie?" 

Arthur ruffles his hair, kisses his forehead, and says, "Thank you for apologizing, and yes, you may." 

Lo and behold, the day actually does turn out to be rather relaxing. 

Until Michelle gets sand in her eyes and begins to cry.

Just another day in the Bonnefoy-Kirkland family. 


	28. Taking One for the Team

**Taking One for the Team**

**Word Count: 1099**

“Amelia’s team is next!” Francis informs them excitedly, getting his video camera ready. It’s dance competition night, and he absolutely loves being able to cheer his daughter on. While he and Arthur were a bit hesitant at first to sign Amelia up for professional dance lessons, she has proven to them time and time again that she is fully committed. And well, it would be cruel of them _not_ to support her. 

“She’s going to look so beautiful in her leotard,” Madeline says, just as excited if not more so. “Her team has a good chance of winning first-place tonight! This is their best routine." 

Arthur nods his head along with the two of them but isn’t nearly as ecstatic. He’s seen the acrobatics involved in this particular dance routine that Amelia is about to perform in her group, and it worries him. He doesn’t understand why the dance instructor couldn’t come up with something more standard and simple. Do the girls really need to be jumping in the air and doing somersaults to score points? 

To be honest, Arthur always feels anxious when he watches Amelia dance. Plenty of things could go wrong, and while he is proud of her for pursuing something she genuinely loves, he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop worrying about her. 

The lights are turned down, the crowd starts to clap, and Amelia’s group struts out onto the stage. Arthur purses his lips and grips the armrest of his seat with one hand and grabs Francis’s hand in the other. 

_"Happiness hit her like a train on a track," _the song begins.

Amelia twirls around in synchronization with the team, a beaming grin on her rosy face. 

_"Run fast for your mother run fast for your father_  
Run for your children for your sisters and brothers  
Leave all your love and your longing behind you  
Can’t carry it with you if you want to survive…”

Amelia does a backflip, and Arthur squeezes Francis’s hand as hard as he dares until he hears Amelia’s feet safely hit the ground. 

Thank God.

She goes straight into a cartwheel afterward, followed by a handstand, and to the untrained eye, she does a perfect job, but Amelia is HIS daughter, and he knows her tricks well. Directly after the cartwheel, he notices her flinch, and the grin on her face wavers somewhat. When she gets out of the handstand, she tucks her left arm behind her back and continues to dance as though all is well. 

“She’s hurt,” Arthur urgently whispers, turning toward Francis and Madeline with a stricken expression. 

“Shhh. What are you talking about? She’s dancing just fine." 

"She’s hurt,” Arthur insists, and he starts bouncing his leg up and down restlessly. Should he go up on the stage and stop her? Why is she still dancing? Has she lost her mind? 

_“The dog days are over_  
The dog days are done  
The horses are coming  
So you better run.”

The music finally stops after what feels like an eternity, and after the girls give a bow and start walking offstage, Arthur springs up to his feet and rushes after them. Francis shouts at him to calm down and stop, but he doesn’t pay him any mind. Arthur knows what he saw, and he’s not crazy. 

He invites himself backstage, pushing his way past a security guard who asks him who he is and what on earth he’s doing. 

“Amelia!” he shouts, running up to her, and, unsurprisingly, she’s holding her shoulder and crying. Her dance instructor is standing beside her, trying to figure out what’s wrong. 

“My shoulder hurts r-real bad,” she sobs, and when she sees Arthur, she immediately goes over to him. “I d-didn’t want to let the team down!" 

_"Sir, you’re not allowed to come back here without–!" _

Arthur takes Amelia to the group’s dressing room, ignoring the guard who is continuing to pursue him, and has her lie down on a couch. She sobs the entire time and starts writhing, clearly in immense pain. 

"We’ll fix it, love,” Arthur tries to soothe her, and when he turns around, he sees he has an entire party of onlookers staring at them. “Can someone find some ice, please?" 

The dance instructor nods and hurries off. 

"Shhh, I know it hurts, poppet. I’m going to take a look at it, okay?” he turns to his audience again and says, “Can we have some privacy, please?" 

The other girls reluctantly scatter, whispering to themselves and theorizing about how bad the damage might be while Arthur just sighs and directs all of his focus on Amelia. When he’s certain they’re alone, he very gingerly helps her out of her leotard and places a cold hand on her inflamed shoulder, assessing the joint. 

"Don’t touch it!” Amelia begs, and more tears stream from her eyes. 

“All right, love. I’m sorry…Can you move it at all?" 

"No, it hurts too much,” Amelia hiccups.

Arthur pets her hair softly, clicks his tongue, and says, “It sounds and looks like you dislocated your shoulder, darling. I’ll call your papa to bring the car up front, and we’ll take you to the emergency room." 

"Can’t you just fix it?" 

"Not without you getting an x-ray and sedative first. You should have stopped dancing as soon as you realized you had injured yourself. Continuing to dance might have made it worse!” Arthur scolds her, keeping his voice low. “It was very reckless!" 

"But my team…" 

"Your health and safety are more important than some silly competition. There will be other competitions…I don’t know how much more of this my old heart can take, you know. You gave me quite a fright today, and I’m tempted to never let you dance again." 

"Dad!" 

"Just promise me you’ll be more careful next time." 

”…Okay, I promise.“ 

"Pinkie promise and cross your heart?" 

Amelia nods, shakes Arthur’s pinkie finger, and traces a cross over her heart with her healthy arm. 

"Good. I’ll call Papa. Just hold still and hang in there for a little longer, okay? It’ll be all better soon." 

"We better have won first place." 

* * *

Four hours later, Amelia leaves the emergency room with her arm in a sling, no longer in any pain. She gets strict instructions from the orthopedic surgeon to avoid dancing for 12 weeks, which isn’t the news she wanted to hear. 

That said, Madeline lets her know that her team did, in fact, win first place, and presents her with a gold medal. 

_So worth it, _Amelia thinks, careful not to look too victorious around Dad. 


	29. Paintball: Not Suitable for Adults over the Age of 35

**Paintball: Not Suitable for Adults over the Age of 35**

**Word count: 300**

“Oi, watch where you’re aiming!”

“What? You can’t take a little paintball?” Francis goads, firing another paintball at Arthur’s chest.

“Oh, you’re asking for it now, frog,” Arthur snarls, raising his paint gun menacingly before landing a shot directly at Francis’s abdomen.

“Oww!”

“Have a taste of your own medicine!”

“_Mathieu_, get into position!”

“Alfred, get behind me. I’ll take care of this.”

The boys sigh in unison at each other from across the room. They thought going out for paintball would be an interesting way to spend their lazy Sunday morning, and it was, until their fathers decided to take things too seriously. It’s not interesting if they’re just going to keep targeting each other and won’t stop bickering.

“You almost hit me in the face!” Arthur says, very offended. “You can’t win without pulling tricks, huh?”

“I wasn’t even close to your face, idiot! HEY! NOW YOU ALMOST HIT ME IN THE FACE.”

“Consider that a warning shot!”

Alfred and Matthew exchange unamused expressions with one another and wonder how much time they have left before this final round is over. They’re hungry, and they were promised pizza and ice cream.

“HAH! TAKE THAT, ROSBIF!”

“COME BACK HERE, YOU GIT!”

This is supposed to be a game for kids. Their parents are a perfect example of why adults should be banned from participating with them. As their parents chase each other around the field, Alfred and Matthew step off to the side and watch them with glazed over eyes, feeling increasingly humiliated on their behalfs.

Arthur ducks away from one of Francis’s paintballs and sticks his tongue out at him. “You’ll have to do better than that!”

“Come closer and fight me like a man!”

Remind them to stay home and just play in the yard next time.


	30. Achy Breaky Joints

**Achy Breaky Joints**

**Word Count: 430**

“You can’t catch me!” Alfred sings teasingly, dribbling his basketball up the driveway and easily outrunning his parents before getting the ball easily into the hoop. 

Francis and Arthur slump their shoulders and try to ignore how hard each of them is breathing. Why are they losing to their sons at basketball? Their children are half their height, mind you! When did they become so old and unfit? So far, the boys have 20 points while Arthur and Francis are sitting at a measly 5 points. FIVE POINTS! It’s degrading!

“Our age is showing,” Francis broods, rubbing at an aching pain in his right calf. “I told you we need to start going to the gym." 

"My joints already hurt,” Arthur groans, massaging his knees. 

Alfred and Matthew snicker at them, and Alfred dares to ask, “Do you guys need to go inside and take a nap for halftime?”

“Fighting words!” Francis gasps, bringing a hand to his heaving chest. “That’s no way to speak to your elders!”

Arthur puts a hand on his hip and winces when it gives a little twinge at the pressure. “We’re not elders!" 

They’re falling apart and turning into dust at the meager age of forty. That’s much too young to be this debilitated and unfit! Sure, they don’t have the same strength and stamina they had at twenty-five, but they are by no means old. There are many professional athletes who are their age. How on earth do they do it? 

"I blame it on the time I broke my leg as a teenager. I’ve never been the same again,” Francis says dramatically before gulping down half a bottle of water in one swig. “Aghhh…”

“You guys can just surrender now if you want,” Alfred offers, but this is now a matter of integrity and pride. 

Francis holds up one hand in the air and announces, “Yes, I surrender." 

"Hey, you can’t surrender! I’m not quitting! You can’t make a decision without my input!” Arthur hisses. The back of his shirt is soaked with sweat, and he’s honestly feeling a little light-headed, but he’s not going to simply give up! Not like this! 

“I want a hot bath and my cozy slippers." 

"Francis!" 

"I’m tired. I’ll see you all for supper." 

All right. That’s it. Starting tomorrow, they’re going to the gym at least three times a week. 

"We’re not surrendering,” Arthur clarifies, looking down at both of the boys. “We’re merely postponing the game. Okay?" 

The boys bob their heads and play along, if only to spare their fathers from further disgrace. 


	31. Pacing Yourself

**Pacing Yourself**

**Words: 1644**

It’s not that Matthew doesn’t like physical activity.

Physical activity just doesn’t like him.

It doesn’t take very much at all to get his asthma to flare up. He’s at a point where he’s using his rescue inhaler twice a day, and that’s without regular exercise. 

If he’s going to be entirely honest, it’s mostly his own fault – he hasn’t been taking his preventer inhaler for over a month now, and his parents have no idea. Each morning and night, he goes into the bathroom and pretends to take a puff of medicine, spraying it into the air instead of actually inhaling it. He stopped taking it because it was giving him headaches and making him lose his voice. And well, if anyone finds out, he’ll be in a lot of trouble…

So, when his parents announce that they’re all going hiking, he’s not exactly looking forward to it.

He stealthily takes two puffs of albuterol before they arrive at the hiking trail, hoping that’ll prep his lungs sufficiently for what’s to come. All he has to do is follow everyone else’s pace, and he doubts they’re going to go very fast, so he’ll be fine, surely. Dad and Papa aren’t that athletic to begin with. 

“Arthur, stop being ridiculous. Leave the backpack in the car. It’s going to be a hassle to carry.” 

“You won’t be saying that when you want an extra bottle of water or need bug spray,” Dad huffs at Papa, slinging the black backpack in question over his shoulders. “Ready? Lead the way.” 

Papa rolls his eyes, pulls out the map he printed out the night before, and starts guiding them down the trail. 

“Matthew, wait one second, love,” Dad calls out to him, and Matthew stops in his tracks with a frown. 

“Yeah?” 

“Just a gentle reminder that you should let us know if you need to stop and take a break at any point.” 

It makes Matthew furious to be treated like he’s fragile. “I’ll be fine.” 

“There’ll be a lot of pollen – did you take your antihistamine this morning?” 

“Yes,” he lies, blood boiling.

“And you have your rescue inhaler with you?”

“Yeah, I’m not a little kid. I’m thirteen.”

Dad raises a brow at him and looks like he’s going to reprimand him for his tone, but he simply says, “Okay – just wanted to make sure.” 

Matthew pointedly zips in front of Dad and starts walking alongside Alfred. They start off at a small incline, walking through a valley that leads up the mountain. Other families are milling about. A lot of the kids are younger than he is, and they seem to be managing just fine. 

Progressively, the dirt path becomes more rugged, and they have to start going up a steep set of rocks. The sun becomes almost completely blocked by the thick canopy of trees above him, and Matthew can see the dust, pollen, and bugs moving through the air in front of him. Suddenly, he feels very claustrophobic, and he can feel his body start to become fatigued. He takes a sip of water and keeps walking, assuring himself that he simply has to warm his body up to the idea of hiking and that the increasing tightness in his chest and mucus build-up in his throat and airways will go away.

After just twenty minutes, his lungs burn. It’s not fair – everyone else looks barely out of breath. He doesn’t see a single bead of sweat on his brother’s forehead. 

What is _wrong _with him? Is he really that much of a weakling? He can do better. He can be normal. He just has to push through it…No excuses. 

He clears his throat in an attempt to get rid of the blockade of mucus impeding his breathing. Dad is just behind him, and Alfred and Papa are a few yards ahead. 

“Are you all right, Matthew?” 

“Yes,” he says, but he feels the urge to cry. He’s not even sure he’s going to be able to make it to the end of the trail at this rate. “I’m fine.” 

To prove he’s strong, he jogs forward and tries to catch up to Alfred and Papa. He hops over a few large rocks, and leaves Dad in the distance, trying to separate himself from him as much as possible. He doesn’t need a babysitter. He’s got everything under control.

“Oh, hey, Mattie!” Alfred says when he finally makes it back to his side. “This is kinda fun, huh?” 

No. Not at all.

“Yeah, totally,” Matthew says with a forced smile. “Race you to the top?” 

“You’re on, bro!” 

“_Mathieu_, are you sure that’s a good idea?” Papa asks, but Matthew has already bounded onward with his twin, leaving his papa’s concerns to fall on deaf ears.

He’s able to keep up with Alfred’s quick pace for about five minutes. After that, his body starts giving out and his lungs feel like they're on fire. He starts panting as they reach a small clearing, and Alfred shoots him a concerned look.

“You okay?”

Matthew doubles over and braces his hands on his knees, now gasping for breath. He takes his rescue inhaler out of his pocket and takes two puffs, shaking.

Alfred puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder and shouts, “GUYS! MATT’S NOT FEELING WELL!”

Dad and Papa arrive on the scene, and both of them look extremely worried, which makes Matthew want to dissolve into a million pieces and disappear. He coughs freely now that he’s been caught and lets a few tears escape his eyes. Once again, he’s proven that he’s weak.

Dad sits him on a nearby boulder to rest and crouches down in front of him. “Did you take your inhaler, love?”

Matthew nods and angrily swipes at his eyes. He wants to die. 

Dad takes the backpack off of his shoulders, unzips it, and pulls out a stethoscope. 

“You brought your stethoscope into the woods?” Papa asks in disbelief.

“Of course, I did,” Dad huffs, putting the buds in his ears before setting the diaphragm on Matthew’s back. He listens for a moment and then instructs, “Take two more puffs of your inhaler for me, poppet.”

Matthew does as he’s told and coughs again, practically choking on the mucus build-up. Fortunately, the extra dose helps, and he’s able to regulate his breathing after a few more moments.

Dad places his stethoscope on his back again, seems satisfied with his findings, and says, “I need you to be completely honest with me – have you been taking your preventer medication?” 

“N-No,” Matthew admits before bursting into tears. “I hate the way it makes me feel.” 

Dad sighs, places his stethoscope back in his bag, and says, “You know it’s very important to take your medicine, Matthew. You could become seriously ill without it. And I told you that you shouldn’t push yourself. It’s okay to take breaks when you need to.”

“I didn’t want everyone waiting for me.“

“Don’t worry about others having to wait. You have to take care of yourself first, love, and if you need to stop, that’s completely fine. This isn’t a marathon,” Dad explains, brushing Matthew’s hair out of his eyes. “Your health is what’s most important.” 

“It’s embarrassing.”

“No, it’s not,” Dad says firmly. “No one is going to think any less of you for setting your own pace.”

“Yes, they will!” Matthew shouts. “Everyone at school stares at me! Nobody wants me on their team at gym class because I suck! You don’t know what that’s like! And it bothers me _every day_! I can’t do anything normally!” 

Dead silence fills the clearing. Alfred and Papa uncomfortably shuffle their feet and stand off to the side as Dad’s frown becomes deeper.

Dad pulls Matthew into a protective hug and tells him, “Your asthma isn’t well-controlled because you’re not taking your preventer medication. We can get it under control and you'll feel better – not perfect or cured, but better, and then, you’ll be able to do more without as many symptoms. Please, don’t hide things from us, Matthew. If you had told me you didn’t like the medication you were put on, then we could have worked something out and found you a new medication. Completely stopping your medicine is never a good idea. You don’t want to end up having a severe asthma attack and being hospitalized.”

Matthew lowers his head in shame and rubs his eyes again. 

“And anyone who makes any snide remarks or tries to make you feel bad about your condition is just revealing that they have an ugly character and aren’t worth your time. If your body is telling you it needs to rest, then listen to it…How are you feeling now?” 

“Better,” Matthew whispers. 

“Are you feeling well enough to continue the hike or do you want to go back to the car with me?”

“I want to finish the hike,” he decides, determined. 

“Okay, but you’re walking alongside me the rest of the way, and you’re going to take it slow, understood?” 

“Yeah.”

“And if anyone ever makes you feel judged again, what are you going to do?” 

Alfred waves one fist in the air and answers for him. “Tell them to get lost or your brother will beat them up!“ 

Dad rolls his eyes and laughs before standing and helping Matthew up. "Or, better yet, you ignore them. We love you very much and want you to stay healthy and safe. Everything else is secondary." 

"Thanks, guys…" 

"Anytime. We’re here for you. Always,” Alfred assures, giving him a playful little nudge in the shoulder. 

Papa hugs him next and says, “Please take care of yourself, _Mathieu.” _

“It’ll get better, don’t worry,” Dad promises, patting his back. “We’ll work on it." 

He hopes his father is right. 


	32. Snow Day

**Snow Day**

**Word Count: **1014 

“IT’S SNOOOOOWING. NO SCHOOL, NO SCHOOL!” Alfred screams with glee, practically flying down the stairs and into the kitchen. “SNOW DAAAAAAAAY!”

“Alfred, keep your voice down, _please_. Sit down and eat your breakfast.” Francis orders, wiping his hands on his apron. The local news forecasted that they’d get no more than a foot of snow, and yet, they somehow ended up getting buried in twenty inches of it–and it’s _still _snowing. The roads are dead, everyone’s trapped at home, and Francis is simply grateful he doesn’t have to work today.

“Can we go out and build a snowman, Papa?” Matthew asks, already sitting at the table and munching on a blueberry waffle. “Please?”

“Maybe once it stops snowing and the sun comes out, _mon lapin_” Francis says, setting a bowl of fresh berries in the middle of the table. “It’s cold and windy out, and we don’t want you boys catching a chill. Look what happened to your father.”

“Dad’s sick?” Alfred asks, sounding a little concerned.

Francis frowns at the amount of maple syrup both boys decide to pour over their meals but chooses not to scold them. It’s the first snow day of the season, and they should be allowed some fun. “_Oui_, he’s running a fever and is staying in bed today.”

“I wanna see,” Alfred says, barely chewing his food so that he can finish quickly and go back upstairs.

“No, let’s try not to disturb—”

“I wanna come, too,” Matthew says, and before Francis can explain to them why it isn’t a good idea, both seven-year-old boys are out of their chairs and are stomping up the stairs, making a huge racket.

Well, so much for letting Arthur sleep in.

* * *

Someone pokes his cheek incessantly, rousing him from the strange dream he was having. As Arthur comes back to his senses, he realizes just how much his head and throat hurt, and how he can’t breathe through his nose at all.

“Daaaad?”

He peels his eyes open and groans. Alfred and Matthew are kneeling on the bed on either side of him. He takes a deep breath and tries to tell them good morning, but a painful, wet cough interrupts him.

“He’s dying, Matt.”

Arthur clears his throat and manages a crooked smirk. “I’m not dying.”

“Don’t talk. Save your energy. Don’t go toward the light,” Alfred says, and Arthur doesn’t know whether he should laugh or be frustrated with his son.

Then, he feels a small hand touch his forehead—it’s Matthew, fussing over him.

“We’ll take care of you, don’t worry!” Matthew says, clearly very worried. “Did you take medicine?”

“Not yet…Just woke up…I’ll be all right, love. Don’t worry.”

“I’ll bring medicine,” Matthew declares, jumping off the bed before running to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. When he returns, he has a bottle of children’s ibuprofen in his hands—which is what Arthur has given the boys in the past when they’ve been ill.

“Thank you, poppet, but this is—”

“You have to take medicine to get better, Dad,” Alfred insists, not giving him a chance to explain that he needs adult-strength ibuprofen.

And, before he can get another word out, Matthew is holding a tablespoon of the stuff in front of his mouth.

“Boys, I—”

Alfred takes the spoon from Matthew’s hand and shoves it between Arthur’s lips, nearly choking him with it.

Against his will, Arthur swallows the cherry syrup and begins coughing again, except this coughing fit is loud enough and long enough to send Francis into the room to investigate.

“What are you boys doing? Enough! I’ll take it from here,” Francis chides them, swiping the spoon from Alfred with one hand before firmly patting Arthur’s back with the other. “I’m sorry, _mon amour_. They were adamant about helping.”

Tears of remorse sparkle in Matthew’s eyes—he’s made things worse, hasn’t he?

Arthur regains his bearings after taking a few sips of water from the glass on the nightstand and says, “Don’t be upset, Matthew. I appreciate your help.”

“And mine?” Alfred asks with a pout.

Although it pains him, Arthur nods and says, “Yes, of course. You’re both wonderful helpers, but don’t waste your snow day tending to me.”

“Your father is right. Why don’t you boys go and play your videogames or put on one of the Christmas movies you wanted to watch?

With a bit more coaxing, they’re able to get the boys to leave, and as soon as they’re out of earshot, Francis makes a pitying noise at Arthur, kisses his cheek, and says jokingly, “The boys are better at getting you to take your medicine than I am…Let me get you another blanket and your breakfast. I don’t want to see you lifting a foot out of this bed today, all right?”

“I can care for myself,” Arthur hisses, sitting up to make his point.

Oh, yes, he looks very threatening with that massive bedhead of his, fever-glazed eyes, and pink cheeks.

Francis climbs into the bed, wraps his arms around his sniffling husband, and murmurs into the shell of his ear, “Be a good patient and you might get a reward once you’re all better.”

Arthur closes his eyes and lets out a long breath. “Mmm…What kind of reward?”

Francis nibbles gently on his ear and whispers, “Anything you want. Only the best for my darling…”

Arthur presses his face into Francis’s neck and hums happily. “Promise?”

“Mmm-hmm, but first, lift your head for a second—keep your eyes closed.”

Arthur quirks a brow but obediently raises his head. He doesn’t know what kind of game this is supposed to be, but he’s curious to see where it goes.

“Part your lips…Just a little. Keep those eyes closed…”

He expects a kiss. Instead, what he gets is another spoonful of that awful cherry syrup! Bastard!

“The first dose wasn’t enough,” Francis chuckles before actually kissing him. “Thank you for being_ so_ cooperative.”

Arthur responds by hitting him with the nearest pillow.

“Don’t you love snow days?” Francis laughs before dashing away.


	33. Stand Your Ground

**Stand Your Ground**

**Word Count: **922

Let Papa be the one to come…Please…

Alfred’s heart sinks to his knees when he sees Dad suddenly walk through the door of the principal’s office. It’s hard to figure out if Dad looks furious or disappointed, or annoyed, or all three. He’s so good at keeping his face neutral and clinical.

He doesn’t say hello to Alfred or acknowledge he’s there. Instead, he walks up to the principal, Mrs. Edwards, and carefully shakes her hand. Alfred thinks he’s about to apologize for his behavior—the usual speech parents give when their kids do something bad to another kid, but he doesn’t. He just stands in front of Mrs. Edward’s desk and frowns.

“I apologize that my husband couldn’t be here—he’s at work.”

“That’s all right. Thank you for coming. As you already know, Alfred’s behavior today has been extremely concerning.” Mrs. Edwards says.

Alfred’s not sure if he’s supposed to be a part of this conversation, so he stands behind his father until Mrs. Edwards invites both of them to sit down.

And oddly enough, Alfred feels Dad put a strong hand on his knee in a comforting kind of way.

“If I could just have a brief run-through of what happened, I would appreciate it,” Dad requests.

“Mr. Lambert, the children’s history teacher, witnessed Alfred shoving another student against a wall.”

Dad purses his lips and narrows his eyes at Alfred like he’s a patient that’s just shown a new symptom and thrown off his entire diagnosis. "Alfred, why did you put your hands on another student?”

“He’s been bullying Mattie for weeks, Dad,” Alfred implores, fairly certain he’s not going to be believed, but when he looks up into Dad’s green eyes, there’s nothing but trust in his gaze. “He threatens him all of the time, spreads rumors, writes mean things online about him, and hit him today!”

“So, this other student is facing consequences as well?” Dad asks, posing the question to Mrs. Edwards.

“Mr. Kirkland, unfortunately, until I have evidence to prove the other student bullied Matthew, I can’t reprimand him. Alfred, on the other hand, physically attacked another student, and his teacher is a witness to that. Therefore, some kind of disciplinary action must be taken.”

Dad has a neutral look on his face again and says, “What kind of disciplinary action?”

“In-school suspension for the rest of the week, and detention during lunch for the rest of the month. He’ll also need to write a letter of apology highlighting exactly what he did wrong and how he could have approached the situation differently.”

“But I don’t want to apologize!” Alfred blurts out. 

The corner of Dad’s mouth twitches as he says, “You’re going to say you’re sorry, Alfred. No arguments…In fact, you’re going to state precisely how sorry you are that you have to be a part of a school system that doesn’t value justice and the judicial process upon which this country was founded, and you can provide a short history of American criminal justice reform and how more needs to be done after consulting with Mr. Lambert.”

A boulder forms in Alfred’s throat. Dad’s defending him?

“Then, you can add how much it saddens you to know that your school would rather dish out arbitrary punishments to their students rather than taking the time to deal with the deeply-rooted systemic problems it faces with bullying and harassment.”

Mrs. Edwards is stunned.

Alfred doesn’t think she’s had any parent talk to her like this before because she’s so on edge and unsettled that she starts fiddling with a pen and doesn’t notice when a chunk of her hair gets loose from her ponytail and cascades down the side of her face.

“Is there anything else?” Dad asks her.

“Mr. Kirkland, I don’t think you understand the gravity of your son’s actions and to come in here and insult this entire academic institution is only teaching Alfred that this kind of violent and aggressive behavior is acceptable.”

“Thank you for your concern, Mrs. Edwards, but I believe I know how to raise my son. If that is all, I’ll be taking Alfred and Matthew home now,” Dad says, ending the lecture. “Thank you for your time. I think each of us learned a great deal today. Come, Alfred.” 

Dad places a hand on his back and leads him out of the room.

They walk in silence all the way to the infirmary, which is where Matthew is still sitting with tear-stained cheeks and bloodshot eyes.

“Everything’s going to be all right, poppet. We’re going to fix this, and you’re never going to have to be afraid of another student again,” Dad promises, finally speaking again.

Dad fusses over Matthew for a while—pets his head, hands him a wet wipe to clean his face, inspects the swelling around his nose, and finally wraps a protective arm around his shoulders before guiding him back out to the car.

They go home, and Dad gives Matthew some pain medicine, after which point Matthew takes a nap because the exhaustion and stress of the day catch up with him.

Alfred sits quietly on the living room couch, not knowing what to say or do.

Dad eventually comes up to him, kisses his head, and says, “Thank you, Alfred. You’re a good brother.”

"I can’t believe you talked to Mrs. Edwards like that!”

Dad manages a tiny smile and hugs Alfred as hard as he can. “You’ll understand when you have your own children someday.”


	34. Grand Slam

**Grand Slam**

**Word Count:** 319

“Arthur, calm down.” 

“I **am** calm.” 

“You’re _crushing_ the bones in my hand,” Francis complains, and that’s when Arthur finally loosens his grip and mumbles an apology. 

Who would have thought watching a baseball game could be so intense? Arthur never had an interest in the sport, but ever since Alfred and Matthew decided to join the team, he’s become emotionally invested. They’re in the seventh inning – the last inning for a high school game, and the boys are in the lead. This is the last game they need to win in order to go on to the playoffs. 

His heart is _racing_. 

“I’m going to get some water before I die of thirst,” Francis suddenly says, standing up from the bleachers. “Want anything?” 

“No, I’m fine. Come back quickly. You’re leaving at the worst possible time.” 

“I promise not to be long,” Francis assures, and just as he’s walking down the steps, a rogue baseball comes hurtling near them and hits Francis directly in the face

_“HOME RUN!”_ someone screams, and the field floods with cheers. 

“Merde,” Francis swears, holding his face and dropping down to his knees. 

“For God’s sake!” Arthur shouts as he quickly runs over to Francis’s aid. “Are you all right? Let me see…Move your hands.” 

“I’ve been hit. My beautiful face–!” Francis laments, and when he reveals the damage, it’s obvious that he was hit in his left cheekbone, as it’s already turned scarlet and swollen. 

“Let’s find you some ice.” 

“Who hit that ball?” 

“…You don’t want to know.” 

“Alfred?” 

“Yes.” 

“My face is ruined for sure, then!” Francis cries out, and Arthur does his best to soothe him. Who knew baseball could be such a dangerous sport?

“On the bright side, the boys just won their game…Let’s not tell Alfred what happened. You’ll be okay – you’re just going to be quite sore for the next few days, I’m afraid.” 


End file.
